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Magic lives in a well—one so deep that you can’t see the bottom for how full it is.
If you drop a bucket into that well and pull it up, it’s overflowing with power—shiny, shimmering magic that sloshes and slurps over the sides and spills onto the ground. Power that’s ready to be harnessed and used.
But what happens if a well doesn’t have a spring to replenish it?
That well goes dry.
Just like my family’s magic is doing now, and there’s only one way to replenish it—for my sisters and I to marry.
It’s antiquated, right? Totally makesnosense. But magic, like life, is always in a state of flux, and in order for it to replenish, a new cycle must be birthed, and for me, that means marriage.
Yes, in the twenty-first century.
Which brings me to today.
Castleview Books is my family’s magical bookshop. Everywhere I look, there are shelves and shelves of books. The spines span the colors of the rainbow, and they’re lined up perfectly, alphabetically, the surfaces dusted and the woodpolished to a bright sheen. The whole place smells of paper, glue, leather and magic.
Oh yes, you can’t have a magical bookshop without that, now can you?
Glancing out of the lead-paned windows, I spy the blue witch lights flare, signaling that a customer’s about to enter the store.
I drop my cleaning rag on the counter and ready myself—shoulders back, chin up, slight smile, nothing too bright, nothing forced. Because whenever I force a smile, I look constipated.
Right on cue, the door blows open and in steps a witch wearing a long ebony coat, flowy black slacks, and red stiletto boots. Her eyebrows and lips are penciled to severity with the thanks of makeup, but Mrs. DeWalt is a pussycat—as long as you don’t cross her.
Which can be said for pretty much any witch, I suppose.
“Mrs. DeWalt, are you ready for your monthly visitintoa book? I’ve got some great stories for you to choose from,” I say with a knowing pump of my eyebrows. “I know how much you like romance.”
Her sharp gaze sizes me up as if she’s surprised to see me, which of course, she shouldn’t be. I’m here every month. I literally see Mrs. DeWalt all the time. We are best buds. I know what she likes, and I line up a curated selection of books for her every thirty (sometimes thirty-one) days. Today I’ve got some sweet romances for her.
Because you see, in Castleview Books, you can live out whatever story you’d like. Just jump into a book and spend the next several hours becoming your favorite character and living out their story.
But before Mrs. DeWalt says a word, she glances over my shoulder to the back of the store where my sister, Addison, helps another patron. “I’m sorry, Blair, but I was hoping to see Addison today.”
“Oh.” Without a word she slides past me, beelining for my sister, which makes my next words come out as a pathetic whine. “But I can help you.”
The only indication I receive that she hears me is a flick of her hand, a clear sign of dismissal.
Yep. This is how it’s been for the last several months. Ever since word got out that my sister can pick a person’s perfect book to read, most of my regular customers have been ditching me for Addison.
I’m not angry. I’m not jealous.
Okay, maybe I’m a little jealous.
But the truth is—I love Addison and I love watching her succeed.
But even that doesn’t stop my excitement bubble from popping, and it certainly doesn’t stop a little bit of my soul from crumbling into the abyss.
But that’s okay. I’ll nab the next customer. Addison can’t help everyone. She can’t take every single customer who enters the shop.
My wish is granted when the door opens again.
“Mr. Patel, great to see you.” I charge forward, intent on helping him. “What book would you like to enter today?”
His dark eyes do the same thing that Mrs. DeWalt’s did—landing on me before skating to the side and finding my sister.
