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“Oh.” Iffat paused. “I’m glad you’re all right. I stepped out of the lab to answer your call.” Lucy could hear the frown in her mother’s tone. She winced.

“Sorry,” Lucy said again.

“If that’s all, I’ll be getting back, then, okay?” Iffat said. “I’ll see you at home.”

Lucy’s voice was quiet. “Okay.”

Iffat hung up, and Lucy put her phone away. It was her own fault. She didn’t know why she had thought calling her mother would make her feel better. Lucy rubbed her temples.

She returned her attention back to Anna, who was still perusing the shelves of thrillers.

Holding her breath, Lucy waited to see if magic would call to her. A moment later, as Anna walked along the shelf, Lucy felt a ping of magic as one of the books recognized a reader it could connect to.

It was like an electric spark in the air, as if the book were buzzing with excitement, waiting to be picked by a reader who would understand and enjoy it, and her previous bad mood dissipated, replaced with joy.

Feeling fizzy with anticipation, Lucy sent a little nudge of magic to Anna. While books had their own magic, sometimes it wasn’t strong enough to attract the reader to them. But a hint of Lucy’s magic could help. Most of her magic was intuitive; it required her attention, feelings, and thoughts, but no explicit directions or words. Her magic understood what she wished and made it happen as best it could.

In this instance, she wished for a book and reader to meet. Books could be mercurial with their magic, not always forthcoming. They were a bit like fussy children, adoring one moment and spurning the next, but Lucy’s magic made sure that the reader would find the right book.

Not every book was for everyone, but there was a book for everyone.

Lucy would know. It was books that saved her life.

Growing up, she had been an achingly lonely child, living in silence. She was afraid of that silence and the dark that seemed to accompany it, shrouding her shoulders like a heavy shawl. Her parents were very busy, very important people, and they worked a lot, and when they weren’t working, they were discreet, contained, their conversation for one another but never, seemingly, for her.

Lucy spent entire days alone, not speaking to anyone at all. She was afraid she’d lose her voice, or that she might disappear. In school, she was regarded as quiet and strange. She did well at her studies and was well-mannered, which made the teachers adore her, but she didn’t make any friends.

When she was six and her magic began showing, her parents sat her down and informed her that it was a very big, very important secret, one she couldn’t share with anyone, not even her friends at school. Well, if she’d had any friends to begin with, this would have ruined that as well—but she had no friends and now was even less inclined to make any.

But then—then she read her first novel. It was a gift from a friend of her parents, about a girl and her brother who run away from home and find solace in an art museum. As Lucy read, her world expanded. The shawl of darkness lifted, and the unknown became something to explore, not to fear. She felt the magic of books, of that connection, like grabbing on to hooks that dredged her out of the deepest sea up, up, up into fresh air.

Lucy immediately begged to go to a library to get more.

There, she felt the magic twofold. She could walk into a room full of books and instantly feel at peace. The silence no longer felt empty, but full. She’d run her hands across the spines, not reading any of the names, just feeling the worn edges, and an energy would surge through her, soft as a light snowfall but strong and sure as the wind, nudging her along.

She found more books, felt that magic over and over, and her love for reading was cemented. She never again felt like she would disappear.

Now, Lucy watched as Anna took books off the shelves and flipped them over to read their back covers. Nibbling on her lower lip, Anna surveyed different options, popping books back into place, taking more out, looking, looking, looking. Book-magic wasn’t immediate; it could not be rushed.

The magic would be unnoticeable for anyone who wasn’t a witch, so Lucy didn’t need to worry about customers finding out her secret. Lucy felt her magic beating, waiting …

Until Anna picked up a book, and pluck, Lucy felt the tingle of magic in the air, both hers and the book’s. She bit back a delighted gasp. This was it. Anna’s next favorite book!

Sure enough, Anna read the back cover, then flipped to the first page and started reading, eyes growing wide, mouth jutting open. Lucy watched as Anna flipped to the next page, and the next, before closing the book. She set the other books in her arms down without a second glance and walked over to Lucy with purpose in her step.

“Find what you need?” Lucy asked, smiling brightly.

“Yes, this one,” Anna said with equal excitement. She set the book down on the counter. “I just read the first few pages and didn’t want to stop! I need to get home and settle in with this one now.”

“Yay!” After Anna ordered coffee and a sweet treat, Lucy checked her out, feeling pleased as she always did when a customer bought a book. Lights twinkled in the background; the shop filled with a cozy warmth.

Reverently, Lucy tucked a colorful Crawley books bookmark into the book along with a bit of her magic (to make sure the book’s own magic wouldn’t be shy to connect with its reader), then slid the purchase into a shop paper bag and handed it to Anna with her order of a pumpkin scone and a freshly made butterscotch latte.

“Tell me how the book is next time you’re in!” Lucy said.

“Think you can stomach it?” Anna asked, laughing. She knew Lucy couldn’t handle thrillers; they stressed her out way too much.

“If you leave out the gory details, yes!” Lucy often heard the plots from Anna because she was always so interested to know what happened, even if she couldn’t bear reading the book. And she liked to know about the books in the shop, to help with recommendations.