Page 13 of Ella and the Enchanted Bookshop

“Well, it will have to wait. The vet is here to look at the Smithsons’ horse. I need you to show him which leg she was favoring yesterday.”

I sighed but nodded. I’d called the vet myself, so it would make sense for me to be the one to talk with him.

And yet, every time I tried to get a moment’s peace throughout the day, Casey seemed to find something new for me to do. Apparently, she had several more equine conferences coming up, which meant she needed me to be ready, and I was quickly reminded of why I’d started taking college classes in the first place.

Sometimes, I just needed to sit down.

Fortunately for me, my next course would start in a week. I could survive until then, I promised myself.

After wolfing down a PB&J for lunch and a granola bar sometime that afternoon, I groaned when I finally got to sink onto my bed with my dinner at nine-thirty that night. For once, Casey had made something I liked–rotisserie chicken with rice and green beans.

Okay, so she’d gotten it from the store. But it still tasted good after being microwaved–something a lot of store-bought meals couldn’t boast.

I thought about texting Asher but decided to wait. It was late, and I had no idea what time he went to bed. Annoyance shot through me as I thought about all the times I’d wanted to answer him that day but had been interrupted with yet another thing to do by my stepmother. So I typed out a reply that I could send first thing in the morning. Then I started to eat. But then Margaret’s storybook caught my eye.

She’d told me we would talk about it later. But it was just so strange. The book was old. Very old. And she’d supposedly lent it out to many people. Surely it couldn’t be normal to loan friends an incomplete story–and a children’s one at that.

And yet, she hadn’t seemed surprised at all that I’d asked her about it.

What was the deal with this book?

Curiosity overtaking me, I took it out of my bedside table and opened it once more. But the second I turned the first page, my heart seemed to stop.

The first part of the story that had been there the day I received the book was still there. But now a new image had appeared on the page after that–along with more text:

After the death of the girl’s father, Ella was mistreated terribly by her stepmother and stepsisters. They forced her to work day and night to keep them comfortable even as their coffers were emptied, thanks to their lavish tastes and luxurious sense of fashion.

Then, after that…

Nothing. Just blank pages for the rest of the book.

I let out a tiny shriek and dropped the book. Thankfully, I was sitting on the bed, so it didn’t have far to fall. Quickly, I closed the book and shoved it into the drawer of my bedside table, this time for my own safety as much as for the book’s.

Books didn’t write themselves. They just didn’t. Nor did they illustrate their own pictures. And yet, that was exactly what this book had done.

Then I shook my head. I was being ridiculous. I must have simply missed that page the first time I’d opened it. Pages stuck together all the time, after all. Yes, that had to be it. The pages had stuck together, and I’d missed the new pages. That was all.

But, I decided as I turned off my light, I knew exactly what I was doing the next day. And if Casey didn’t like it, she could kick rocks.

I had to ask Margaret about this book.

7

Try a Pumpkin Bar

Iwas drowned in the scents of pumpkin spice and cinnamon when I walked into Margaret’s bookshop the next day. I never could figure out how she got the shop to always smell exactly like the season she desired, as I never saw a single candle or cinnamon broom anywhere. But as usual, the scent was pervasive without being overwhelming. There were now white and orange twinkle lights all over the inside of the store as well as the porch, and the decorative pumpkins and autumn leaves had spread inside as well. Several end caps and tables promoted autumn-themed romances, nonfiction books on harvest and homemaking for the holidays, and one even boasted several original copies of various Fairy Books by the Langs, a few Edgar Allen Poe works, and some shiny new copies of the Grimm tales.

The moment I saw the fairy tales, it was as though a spell had been cast over me. What I wouldn’t give to smell each and every one.

But no, I chastised myself. I wasn’t here to sniff books–even old ones like these. I was here to ask about the book.

Belle came around a corner carrying a stack of to-go cups and lids. “Hey, Ella! How are you?”

“I’m good, thanks,” I said. “Is Margaret in today?”

“She should be back in a minute. She had to run something to her house.” Belle paused and looked at the book I was carrying. “I’m guessing you’re here to ask about that.” She nodded at the book.

I gave her a forced smile. “It’s… more than a little confusing.”