Page 13 of Love By the Book
Mom would have good ideas—she’s the best at making lists and listening with her whole person. But, Mom would also haveopinions. Opinions about why I want to leave, about what I’m running from, about how sometimes we create elaborate escape plans to avoid dealing with our feelings. If I try to explain this Fellowship opportunity to her, she’ll start throwing around words likeemotional bypassingandfear of commitment.
Maybe I'll keep it to myself for now. Just until I know if I can craft a third community project and if they accept me into the program. No need to upset Mom or get the town gossip mill churning. Once it’s an actual plan, I’ll share it with her.
Grandma Ida's photo sits in a puddle of golden morning light. "I'm doing it," I whisper to her smiling face. "I'm really doing it."
Now I just have to figure out how to balance planning a global adventure with working my job and finding perfect matches for others in town—including one frustratingly attractive book curator who makes my heart flutter in ways I can’t afford to feel.
Right. Simple.
I take another sip of coffee and start writing, trying to ignore the way my stomach flutters every time I think about leaving. Or staying. Or Eli.
Maybe I need something stronger than coffee.
Eli
My first reaction upon entering the room is disbelief.
"This is..." I trail off, unable to find the right words as I take in the staggering collection before me. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stretch in every direction, seemingly defying the physical dimensions of the library itself. Ancient texts line each shelf, their leather bindings in various states of preservation, from crumbling to surprisingly pristine.
The air carries the unmistakable scent of old paper—that distinct combination of dust, leather, and something else. Something almost sweet, like vanilla but earthier. The perfume of centuries.
"Impressive, right?" Michael says, clearly pleased by my stunned reaction. He's been chattering happily since collecting me from the entrance, and I'm grateful for his ability to carry the conversation. It allows me to absorb everything without the pressure of maintaining small talk.
I run my fingers along a shelf, the raised spines humming beneath my touch. "How did you even collect this many books on an island? The salt air alone would?—"
“Destroy them?” Michael finishes with a knowing smile. “That's where the magic comes in.”
As he says it, I notice the shimmer in the air—almost imperceptible unless you know what to look for. Protective wards. The ones around the room are strong, steady, humming with quiet power. But the ones surrounding the books themselves… they’re different. Still present, but dulled, like a once-vibrant painting left too long in the sun.
"The entire room is warded," I murmur, feeling the gentle buzz of magic against my skin.
Michael nods enthusiastically. "One of the strongest magical containments on the island. Has to be. Some of these texts date back to the 1500s." He gestures to a glass case in the corner. "We've got a first edition Malleus Maleficarum over there, though I don't recommend reading it—terrible propaganda, obviously."
My initial frustration about agreeing to this full-time position during my break dissolves as I scan the shelves with growing excitement. This is a treasure trove of knowledge that could contain almost anything.
Including, perhaps…
My heart rate quickens at the thought.
Cyrus Whitlock spent twelve years on Magnolia Cove. Twelve incredibly productive years, during which he wrote some of his most groundbreaking work on Welsh mythology. If there were any signed copies of his books—any at all—they would likely be here, perhaps gathering dust in this very room.
I can almost hear Dr. Chen's voice in my head, her knowing smirk when I'd mentioned my summer plans.Still chasing one of the mythical signed copies?I'd shrugged it off like it didn't matter, but of course it did. Finding a signed Whitlock would be more than just a rare book acquisition; it would be the culmination of my entire academic career.
"You must have a powerful witch or warlock to maintainthis room," I comment, noting how the space seems to expand beyond what should be physically possible. Magic like this requires constant attention, regular renewal.
Michael laughs and rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Oh yeah. Head Warlock, Dean Markham. Have you met him?"
"I have." The memory of my meeting with Dean Markham is still vivid. I'd needed his approval to stay on the island for the season, magical pocket communities being cautious about long-term residences to protect their secrets. Being in his presence had been like sitting before a roiling fire of magic—intense, almost uncomfortable. Though in all fairness, I find most social situations uncomfortable, so perhaps that was nothing unusual.
"He's… a lot," Michael continues, "but he takes the protection of these texts seriously. We couldn't maintain this collection without him."
I nod, absorbing this information as we continue our tour. Michael points out sections organized by era, by subject matter, by magical properties. My fingers itch to begin examining them immediately, to lose myself in their pages.
"—and if you want to join us for lunch some days," Michael is saying, "the break room is behind the circulation desk. Maria brings homemade cookies on Fridays."
"What are the other librarians like?" The question comes out smoothly, surprising me with its ease. But I know immediately why it flows so naturally—I'm asking about Rhianna. I'm thinking about Rhianna.
I haven't stopped thinking about her since our encounter yesterday. Her laughter still rings in my ears, the cadence of her voice like a song I can't get out of my head. The way she'd argued with me about music with such passion, such conviction—it was magnetizing.
