Free The Rosemary Spell by Virginia Zimmerman Page B

chairs, here a hard-backed old-fashioned desk chair, there a small overstuffed armchair. The three of us like to crowd into the chair-and-a-half that fills the middle-grade-young-adult nook, and we wend our way past fiction and biography to get there. At English history, I realize we lost Shelby in fiction.
    I turn back. “You coming?”
    She doesn’t look up from the book she’s pulled from a pile propped against the
E
’s and
F
’s. Her long hair looks almost golden compared to all the browns and burgundies and greens of the old books that frame her. I have my phone. I could take a great photo of her. But I don’t want a picture of Shelby in adult fiction.
    â€œI thought maybe I’d tackle
The Mill on the Floss,
” she murmurs.
    Our teachers are always mentioning
The Mill on the Floss.
It’s about a small town on a river that floods, like ours. But they say we should read it when we’re older. When we’re adults. Once you cross over to
The Mill on the Floss,
you don’t belong in the middle-grade nook anymore.
    â€œNot yet, Shelby,” I plead.
    â€œMichelle,” she corrects me absently, but she puts the book back on the stack and follows me to our spot.
    Adam’s already claimed the cushiest corner of the chair, and he holds a tan hardcover book with a title in gilt letters.
    I squeeze next to him, and Shelby perches on the arm of the chair.
    â€œWhat’d you find?” she asks.
    â€œ
The Story of the Amulet,
by E. Nesbit,” he replies.
    â€œI’ve never heard of that one.” I read over his shoulder.
There were once four children who spent their summer holidays—
    â€œWhy is it always summer holidays?” Shelby wonders. “Can’t people have adventures in winter?”
    â€œWe’re having an adventure in winter,” I counter. “You know, the diary.”
    â€œDid you bring it?” She lowers her voice.
    â€œNo. I didn’t want my mom to see it.” Guilt pokes at me again.
    Adam explains as best he can what Constance said, and he tells Shelby about the poem. I tune them out and sit, miserable with self-reproach.
    Mom brought me to this bookstore. She brought me to books, period. She’s the reason I even care about the diary, or the false codex, or whatever it is. All the books in the nook seem to be scolding me, and I shove myself out of the chair and move away.
    â€œRosie?” Adam calls after me.
    â€œI want to see if they have anything by Constance.” I made this up on the spot, but it’s actually a good idea, and I pick my way around piles of books to the poetry section.
    I step back to look up at the second-to-the-top shelf, well above my head. Brontë. Brooke. There are two books with Constance’s name on the spine.
    â€œWhat are you looking for?” Mom appears at my side, clutching a brown-wrapped package to her chest.
    â€œConstance Brooke. For our poetry project,” I answer. Gratitude and shame jostle each other. Gratitude that she didn’t show up when we were talking about the diary. Shame that I’m grateful. “Did you get what you needed?”
    She pats the package. “It’s a rare eighteenth-century edition of Shakespeare’s sonnets with some slight alterations. Most scholars have dismissed its authenticity, but I want to decide for myself.” She’s all lit up.
    â€œI hope when I grow up I love my job as much as you do,” I say.
    She puts a hand on my cheek. “I hope so too, Rosie.” She nods to the ladder. “See what you can find.”
    I climb up two steps. A little stack of paperback books sits on the platform at the top of the ladder. Constance’s name leaps out at me from one of the paperbacks.
Constance Brooke—Early Poems.
I extract the slim book from the stack.
    A black-and-white photo of a young Constance looks out solemnly from the cover. She must be in her twenties or so. Her hair is