Page 38 of Love By the Book
Warding has always fascinated me—technically demanding and heavily rooted in magical mathematics, it’sone of the more intricate branches of magic. Even among those who have the magical ability, not all enjoy the precision it requires, but I’ve always found comfort in its structure.
"Cream or sugar?" Ethan calls from the kitchen.
"Black is fine, thank you."
He returns moments later with two steaming mugs, handing one to me. "Go ahead and explore. I know that look—you're itching to get your hands on them."
I take a sip of the coffee and nearly sigh aloud. It's exceptional—rich and complex with notes of chocolate and something else I can't quite place.
"This is excellent," I say, taking another drink.
Ethan smiles. "Coffee's my other passion. I roast the beans myself."
"I can tell." I set the mug on a nearby table on a coaster and turn back to the books. "Mind if I...?"
"Have at it. That's why you're here."
I approach the shelves with the reverence they deserve, automatically falling into my cataloging mindset. First, a visual assessment—I scan the titles, mentally sorting them into rough categories: culinary texts (approximately 30% of the collection), fiction (perhaps another 25%), historical references, philosophy, poetry, and—most interestingly—a solid section on folklore and mythology.
Next, I evaluate the physical condition. Many volumes show signs of regular use—softened spines, minor foxing on pages, small imperfections that speak to books that have been read and loved rather than merely collected. Others appear remarkably well-preserved despite their obvious age.
Then, I move to magical assessment, focusing on the volumes emanating magical energy. I categorize these by ward type: preservation spells (the most common), anti-deterioration charms (slightly different magical signature, more focused on paper stability than overall preservation), and enhancementwards (designed to make the reading experience more immersive).
I pull out my small notebook and jot down quick observations—which books need immediate ward reinforcement versus which can wait. Some texts appear to have multilayered wards, suggesting they've been maintained by different wardens over time. Then my fingers brush across a familiar binding—a deep green leather with gilt lettering that makes my heart skip a beat.
I carefully slide it out, hardly daring to hope. The title confirms it:The Forgotten Heroes: Tales from the Welsh Borderlandsby Cyrus Whitlock.
"Find something interesting?" Ethan asks from where he’s settled into an armchair with his coffee.
"Very," I breathe, carefully opening the cover. It's a first edition—I'd recognize the typesetting anywhere. My heart races as I flip to the title page, half-expecting to see Whitlock’s looping signature scrawled in ink.
But the space beneath the author’s name is blank.
Still, the pages are in remarkable condition, with only minimal foxing. A first edition Whitlock in this state is a rare find—signature or not.
"This is..." I struggle to find words that won't reveal how desperately I’d love to have a copy like this in my collection. "It's quite valuable. Did you know that?"
Ethan shrugs. "I figured it might be. It was my great-grandfather's. He used to say Whitlock himself gave it to him, but I always thought that was just a good story."
I nearly drop the book. "Whitlock gave it to him? Directly?"
"That's the family legend." Ethan takes a sip of his coffee. "My great-grandfather traveled to Magnolia Cove often for work. Supposedly, he and Whitlock stayed at the same boarding house whenever they were in town."
This new information sends my mind racing. If Whitlock personally gave this book to Ethan's great-grandfather, then the chances of other signed copies being in Magnolia Cove increase exponentially. Maybe my quest isn't as quixotic as my colleagues suggested.
I carefully set the book on the table and take a steadying breath. "Ethan, I hope this isn't inappropriate, but would you consider selling this? I'd pay well above market value."
Ethan studies me for a moment, then smiles. "Consider it payment for the protection wards."
I stare at him, certain I've misheard. "I'm sorry?"
"The book. It's yours." He nods toward it. "For helping with the cake."
"But—" I sputter, shocked by his generosity. "That's far too much. The ward was a simple spell, hardly worth?—"
"It's worth it to me," Ethan interrupts gently. "That cake represents a lot more than just food to the couple getting married. It's a centerpiece of their celebration, something they'll remember their whole lives." He shrugs. "Besides, the book would mean more to you than it does to me. I'd rather see it with someone who appreciates its value instead of gathering dust on my shelves.”
I'm momentarily speechless. In academic circles, there would be fierce competition for a first edition Whitlock. People would call in favors, pull strings, perhaps even engage in some ethical corner-cutting to acquire it. Yet here's Ethan, casually giving it away because he thinks I'd appreciate it more.
