I put down the book and found myself greeted by Salinger's expectant eyes. We were seated in the hidden library. The white trees stretched their limbs over us as cover from the sunlight peeping through the skylight.

“What did you think?” he blurted.

I didn't know how to answer him. The truth seemed too horrible to explain. “This book was written to be read only once, wasn't it?” I feigned.

“Yes.”

I frowned at him, unable to feign more than once. “I'm sorry, but someone has already read this book. It didn't pull me in. It's already been written like any other novel, describing a different girl's reaction to your story.”

“What?” he gasped, snatching the book from my fingers. He opened to the first page and started reading out loud. Scanning furiously, he read her thoughts and her speech. Then he snapped the book shut. “Who did this?”

I averted my eyes.

“You know!” he accused.

“You can figure it out yourself if you read further into the story. She might even tell you her real name, but if it's okay with you, I'd rather not read anymore. It's insulting and grotesque from her perspective.”

“Well, it was going to be monumental,” he sputtered angrily.

“I'm sure it was,” I said, thinking of how his imagination had not filled in the blanks of the story. According to the reader, there were too many gaps. I did not think about what he said about me and how deeply it struck. It had been a narrow escape. If I had read that book, I might have been romanced—lost.

“Who do you think it was?” he asked, getting more impatient.

“I think it was Fair Isle.”

“Why?”

“She talks about her piercings and the color red. Pearl and Intarsia don’t talk that way and Clementine is out. She has no reason to steal a spell book.”

“You sound so sure.”

“I am so sure.”

He crossed his arms across his chest. “How?”

I got up and led him to the other side of the room. Few people knew about the secret room inside the hidden library, but there had to be a room designated for the purpose of reading and it needed to be clandestine. It was little more than a closet hidden behind a painting, but inside was a reading nook that ensured complete privacy while reading. I pulled a picture frame from the wall and showed him the space behind it. I liked being the keeper of secrets. I didn't even look inside. I merely opened it and leaned against the wall. Without looking, I knew Clementine was there, lying on her back with a book in her hands. She was completely oblivious to the world.

Salinger looked in and returned it to its place before he commented. “Is she old enough to be reading that?”

“According to the family, Clementine's nineteen.”

“That can't possibly be right.”

“It's not.”

Salinger shook his head. “How old do you think she is?”

I rolled my eyes. “I've been studying her for a long time. I don't think she's ancient, and I don't think the witch who Clementine claims to be her mother is related to her. Clementine wasn't raised with the rest of us from infancy. She came when I was eleven. I think she belongs to someone else, a witch who had an obsession with youth. Maybe a witch who couldn't stand being grown up enough to have a child.”

“Still, do you have a guess as to how old she might be?”

“I think she's in her late twenties, but she looked so off eight years ago that she couldn't pass for an adult, so they shoved her in one grade ahead of us. I'm not trying to be rude, but I think it's not just her body that looks so young. She's young in her head too. The magic that keeps her young is potent. She's going to look like a goddess her entire life.”

“What? You want to change places with her?”

My mouth fell into a disgruntled frown. “Do I wish my mother was obsessed with youth and beauty to the extent that I would age half the rate of everybody else? The price is too high. Clementine makes horrible decisions regularly and she doesn't even have the decency to be sorry about it. She's almost thirty and she's content to hang out with a bunch of high schoolers. No. I don't want to switch places with her. But part of the reason I feel so close to Clementine is that she and I have something in common—errant mothers. Maybe it's that my mother has me feeling down lately.”

“You never talk about her,” Salinger remarked, sounding particularly kindhearted.

I almost wanted to tell him what was going on and why I was so wretched, but I didn't. Instead, I turned the conversation back to Fair Isle. “I think Fair Isle stole your book, and if there was any kind of love spell woven into the pages of this book, she might be quite unhappy for the next little while. Lock your door at night,” I advised.

He shook his head. “There was no love spell. I’m not trying to control you.”

“I appreciate that. All the same,” I said. “You should read every last bit of what happened inside the book and see what damage has been done. These books are dangerous.”

He clenched his teeth and nodded.