Free The Book of Faeyore by Kailin Gow Page A

day, when I was twelve years old and still not a day too old for fairy tales, I found something more than an ordinary book.
              It was sitting on my mother’s table – a heavy, ponderous tome, with a leather cover that looked far older than the shiny hardbacks my mother’s company usually put out. I tiptoed nearer, craning my neck to see, hoping that my babysitter Annie wouldn’t catch me rummaging through my mother’s things. Why did that book look so old? Had my mother designed it to look like that? But when I came closer, I could smell the musty age of the book from halfway across the room. It wasn’t a new edition, that was for sure. It had dark burgundy binding with gold trim that shone brightly, seeming to draw me closer. Its glint beckoned me forward. I felt a sudden chill – almost as if a wind had passed over me. I stopped and looked up, confused.
              But the book was still sitting there, just as it had done moments before. Perhaps it was just cold in here. But something still seemed strange…
              I told myself not to be so silly – my mother had all kinds of books in her room; why should this one be any different? I shook the fear from my feet and tiptoed even closer, reaching out to touch the crinkled spine…
              “Faeyore!”
              I jumped back in shock. The book had spoken, a deep, unearthly voice rising up from the depths of the pages. I clapped a hand over my mouth before I let myself scream. I wouldn’t want Annie to find me up here. I turned and ran out of the room as quickly as I could.
              “Faeyore!” The book had said. But – talking books? I looked back at my mother’s room with trepidation. Books can’t talk, Breena! You’re being silly. But I couldn’t deny that I’d definitely heard it – a voice that was nothing like a human voice, a rumbling, powerful voice. Full of magic.
              I ran downstairs to find Annie in the process of closing the front door. “Bye!” she called out, a blush and a giggle on her face. She turned bright red as soon as she saw me.          “Package came,” she explained – although the definite embarrassment on her face suggested it was the carrier, rather than the package, that so interested her. Annie was fifteen, who helped watch me when my mother worked, although she was only three years older, and had just discovered that boys were inherently exciting; the slightest hint of romance thrilled her. “Kind of  funny-looking, isn’t it?” She handed it to me. “Well, you like that kind of thing.”
              It was wrapped not in the nice, neat cardboard packaging my mother’s galleys came in, but rather in what looked like enormous banana leaves, tied together with pliable twigs.
              “You like nature, don’t you, Breena?” Annie laughed and tweaked me lightly on the nose. She’d known me since I was four years old and occasionally baby sat me since she was seven and had gotten used to my eccentric ways. While, since she’d hit her teens, she’d despaired of the fact that I hadn’t yet gotten excited about the prospect of lipstick or mascara, she nevertheless seemed to enjoy having me around. She was, I thought, the closest thing I had for a big sister. Though if it was true, we could never pass for it, with her hair the color of raven’s wings and skin olive tone, and my hair being honey color with natural copper highlights enough to make it look almost brown, and my skin golden tan. Then there were my eyes, a color that was violet or lavender, a color I have not seen in anyone else before.
              “Should we put it in Mom’s room?” I asked, shuddering to myself. I wasn’t exactly excited about going back in there.
              “It’s actually addressed to you, Breena. Look!”
              And it was true. My name – BREENA MALLOY – was written in intricate