Chapter 7
Dear Library Fairy,
Have you truly read The Island of Dr. Moreau? I can tell you without hesitation that this fatalistic and morose tale is not one of my favorites. Please provide a lighter fare, if you will, with as few half-man, half-beast creatures as possible. I trust your guidance and understanding on this matter, since you outfitted my sister with such an excellent choice as the Finding Ever After collection.
Besides fairy tales, which seems appropriate for a fairy, what other type of books do you enjoy?
Curiously,
The Book Goblin
P.S. Forgive me, but you are nothing like any servant I’ve ever met, therefore I’ve determined you truly are a fairy.
Book Goblin,
I hope you’ll enjoy the three offerings I’ve selected for you, but if not, I feel certain I can locate something else. Biltmore has many literary adventures to offer.
Fairy tales are my favorite type of book, but I find that many fiction books hold fairy-tale elements without being categorized in that genre. A world of wonder reveals itself in many different ways through literature—magic in everyday sorts of ways if one has the eyes to see it.
It rarely takes pixie dust for the true book lover to locate magic between the pages of a well-written story.
The Library Fairy
After another “tutoring” session with Miss Withersby, I’d reluctantly informed her that Oliver Camden’s habit was to take a stroll about the gardens after breakfast, usually with a book in hand. A pastime I’d have happily indulged in as lady of the house. But even though I was a servant, Biltmore offered the opportunity to read and provided an endless supply of stories as long as the reading didn’t interfere with my work.
As I passed by the window overlooking the library terrace, movement caught my attention. Two figures walking in synchrony along the terrace wall, which opened to a vast view of the mountains on the horizon. Miss Withersby and Oliver Camden.
They walked along the path, the late summer sky a deep azure behind them. I braced a hand against the window frame and watched, as Miss Withersby’s lavender coat blew in the breeze and Oliver walked with his hands behind his back, his profile turned in Miss Withersby’s direction. They made a lovely pair. Picture perfect. Exactly as everyone expected, I suppose.
A sickening pain lurched in my stomach and I took my silly emotions firmly in hand. At least impossible romances became possible, quite regularly, in fiction. And in fiction—I turned back to the dozens of library shelves surrounding me—I would remain. But a little extra daydreaming about a bookshop might be necessary.
My attention flittered back to the window, the nausea resurfacing.
“I finally found you.”
I spun from my spot as if Mrs. Vanderbilt herself had caught me mooning over Oliver Camden, only to find Oliver’s little sister staring up at me. Garbed in lovely green, complete with a ruffled collar, she arrived at the perfect time to afford my wayward thoughts some pleasant distraction.
“Have you been trying to find me?”
“For hours and hours.” Which likely meant thirty minutes to a curious child.
“Well, look what an excellent finder you are.” I clasped my palms together. “How may I help you?”
“Father doesn’t like reading books and Ollie is with Miss Withersby.” She scrunched up her face as she said the woman’s name, and I liked the cherub even more. “There are some words I can’t read.”
“Are you asking me to read to you, Miss Victoria?”
Her dimples emerged again and she bobbed that head of golden curls. “Would you? Please? The pictures only make me curiouser, especially the one with the witch and the apple.”
I lowered myself to her level and almost said yes right away, except I remembered the errand Mrs. Vanderbilt had specifically assigned to me. “I would love to read to you, but I cannot meet this afternoon because I must run an errand for Mrs. Vanderbilt in the village. What about tomorrow?”
She turned her tiny chin northward, as if in thought, and then her smile bloomed. “Tomorrow morning? I wake up early.”
I stifled my chuckle. “That sounds perfect.” I leaned close and baited her with a whisper. “And perhaps I can sneak some pastries and tea from the kitchen for our very own private tea party? Tea and books go very well together.”
Victoria’s dimples nearly deepened to dime-size. “And biscuits,” she whispered back.
“Of course, as long as it’s not too early.”
And without warning, Victoria lunged forward and wrapped me in her warm little arms, her soft curls brushing my face with the scent of roses. I didn’t have a great deal of practice with hugs, though I loved experiencing them. The sweetness nearly unraveled my emotions and my heart trembled with the hint of a desire I didn’t fully understand. Motherhood? Touching children’s lives?
I squeezed back and let the moment linger like the ending of an excellent book. God knew my story. I prayed the next chapter would hold more possibilities for the impossible. I was determined to make a way.
I’d never been an admirer of surprises. They usually came packaged in bad news, or that had been my experience, so when I entered the bakery where Lark worked, I wasn’t exactly thrilled to find her engaged in an intimate conversation with a young man.
Mind you, by appearances, the man held a fine quality. Gray suit. A pair of shiny wing-tipped Oxfords on his feet, and a likeable face. But his eyes? Something about them grated against my sisterly heart. Not so much their color, which was a dark brown, but more the way he used them. Or, to be precise, the way he used them on my sister.
Lark saw me and, with
