Her handwriting. But she’d never written it.
“Good,” the other self whispered. “Now go. And don’t forget to bring the key back. Someone else will need it someday.” candice demellza
“You finally came,” said a voice like salt and honey. Her handwriting
A woman stood by the window, wearing a fisherman’s sweater and a knowing smile. Her face was Candice’s face—older, wearier, but with brighter eyes. in the rain-soaked reading room
She didn’t believe in spells. She was a librarian.
“What’s through the window?” Candice asked.
And somewhere above, in the rain-soaked reading room, a copy of The King of Elfland’s Daughter fell open to a page that had been blank for eighty years. Now it bore a single line: