before he saw the car or heard any footsteps on the walkway, or smelled his boyâs wonderful, familiar scent. Something was going to happen and it wasnât good.
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The town librarians werenât at all prepared for the crowds, although they probably should have been. They were the only Wi-Fi hot spot in a fifty-mile radius. They had lights, running water, and cable Internet service. Mr. Werner had called in both Mrs. Frances Greely and Ms. Laura Charles to work that day. Every computer terminal was in use, with a long string of names on the waiting list. Those waiting were supposed to sit quietly and read, but there simply werenât enough chairs. The restrooms were a mess, and the noise alone could have sent any one of the librarians to the madhouse.
âThatâs a very outdated term, Fran.â
âWhat is?â
â Madhouse . You know. Lunatic asylum. Thatâs so eighteenth century.â
âLaurie, itâs an expression, not a politically correct statement, for goodness sake. Itâs just mayhem in here. I think every single middle school and high school student from the whole district is here.â Mrs. Greely was checking in books from the return bin. You never knew what you were going to find pressed in those pages, the things people used as bookmarks and then forgot to remove before returning.
âHmm, youâre right. And considering half the town has left or is staying in hotels, this is pretty crazy. What are these children looking up , anyway?â
Mrs. Greely flipped through the pages of the Larousse Encyclopedia of Mythology , Prometheus Press, New York, 1959, before she put it on the cart to take it back to the stacks. There seemed to be some new stains on the fabric coverâthey didnât make books like this anymoreâbut otherwise it was fine.
âFor the life of me, I canât imagine,â Mrs. Greely answered. She lifted out the next book and gave it a little shake. âTheir e-mail?â
âKids donât e-mail any more,â Ms. Charles said.âThey check their person2person page. They listen to music and watch videos.â
âOh.â
âAnd they donât talk on the phone. They text.â
âOh, I know.â
âOr Twitter.â
âTwitter?â
âI mean, look at that girl over there.â Ms. Charles pointed. âShe hasnât moved in eighteen minutes. Sheâs just staring at that screen like a zombie.â
âShe certainly is transfixed, isnât she?â
Mrs. Greely pulled out the next book, A Candle in Her Room by Ruth M. Arthur, Aladdin Books, 1966. It had been one of Mrs. Greelyâs favorite books when she was a child, and she wondered who had taken it out to read.
âWell, she canât sit there much longer, and I sure hope she read the sign about the thirty-minute maximum computer time. I hate having to remind these people.â
The book was so magical. It was scary and romantic, suspenseful and mysterious. It was everything a book could or should be. Mrs. Greely held it tight to her chest as if her love for the book could seep into it, out of her heart. Or perhaps it was the other way around.
âFran? Are you listening to me?â
âYes, of course, Laurie. You hate to have to remind the kids when their turn is up. Iâll do it.â
Mrs. Greely slowly tilted the book down and studied the cover. It was the same sketchy illustration she remembered, of a girl in a sweater poking a stick into high leaping flames. The same crinkly plastic paper over the dust jacket. Oh, yes, the doll. There was a magical, evil doll named . . . named Dido. She had been so enraptured by the book that she wanted to own it. She wanted it to be hers.
She loved it so much she had memorized the first and last sentence:
I suppose if we had not come to Prembrokeshire, Judith, Briony and I, this story would never have been written. There would have been no
Landon Dixon, Giselle Renarde, Beverly Langland