Page 103 of The Book Witch

The Book Case Files of Rainy March, Book Witch

by Maxine Blake

Then I turned to the first chapter, first page.

“Out loud,” she said.

My voice was steady when I began but broke and shook as I read the following words out loud.

All stories are love stories if you love stories.

And I do love stories. As a Book Witch, you kind of have to love them. It’s on our recruitment posters, after all.

My name is Rainy March, and yes, it’s a bad pun and also a weather forecast, and no, sorry, I can’t change it now. It’s already embroidered into my underwear and printed on my bookplates.

The book fell out of my hands.

“You know now, Rainy?” she asked gently.

I nodded.

“I know,” I said. “You’re a writer. You’re…my writer.”

“And who are you?” she asked.

“I’m Rainy March,” I said. “I’m a fictional character and always have been.”

“I did try to warn you,” she said. “Things are never what they seem.”

—

“Do you wantto faint?” Maxine asked.

“If you don’t mind.”

“Go for it,” she said. “Fictional characters do tend to faint more than the general population.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it. Back soon.”

My knees buckled, the world went black, and I was out like a light, like a fictional light in a hallway made of words, paper, and pure imagination.

When I came to, I lay on a soft shag rug that hadn’t been therebefore I fainted. “Sorry about that,” I said as I blinked at the ceiling. There was also a mirror up there, but I didn’t look too deeply in it.

“Don’t mention it,” she said. “Want some more tea? Water? I can conjure some up for you if you’d like. Or would you prefer bourbon?”

“Bourbon? I don’t drink bourbon. Or do I?”

“You’re having a mild existential crisis. Bourbon might help.”

She reached out her hand to me. I took it, and she helped pull me upright. We sat cross-legged on the rug facing each other, like two little girls about to play patty-cake on the playground.

“One shot won’t kill me, right?” I asked.

“Not on my watch,” she said. She reached behind her, and suddenly there was a picnic basket. She put it on the rug, which had become a red-check picnic blanket, and opened the lid.

“Here we go,” she said. “I picked up a bottle of this in Kentucky on my last book tour.”

She set a bottle of bourbon on the rug between us and two shot glasses. On the label was a picture of a woman in a cowboy hat holding a scythe.