The Beauty of Mist, the Beast of Dawn {INDEFINITE HOLD}

Chapter 4: The Witch

"And they all lived happily ever after," I read aloud and sighed inaudibly. I had come here to calm down, not to be reminded of the previous summer. I gently closed the book of fairy tales. "Mr. Hughes, do you have anything new that I can take with me?"

Mr. Hughes, Ilah's only librarian, peers down from the ladder he is perched on. His feather duster, which had been moving at the speed of light just a moment before, stilled in an instant. 

"Already, Myalah?" His incredulous tone did not match the quizzical expression on his face. "I would have thought that book would last you another hour or so."

I shrugged. "My speed and skill can only grow. Besides, it was an easy book."

"Which was your favorite?" Mr. Hughes asked.

"There are so many! I can hardly choose," I replied truthfully. Well, it was half the truth. There truly were too many tales to determine one favorite, but the whole truth was that I had skimmed half of them. The happily ever afters had been too much for me, especially after the nightmare I'd awoken from that morning.

Mr. Hughes gave me a stern look, and I knew instantly that I had slipped up. "Myalah," He began in his infamous lecturing voice, "you and I both know that no number of tales is ever too large for you not to have a favorite. Now tell me, what was so horribly wrong that made you skim that book."

I gave him a sad smile and said, "Really, nothing was horribly wrong. It's just that... well, you've heard the stories circulating around the village about me, haven't you?"

"Myalah, there are always rumors about you. You have to be more specific as to which one."

I smiled again, though this one was more forced than the last. "Surely you know which ones I speak of! The ones about my love life?" My failed love life, I silently added.

Mr. Hughes' face fell. "Of course I do," he answered softly. "I am so sorry Myalah. I should have known. I should have thought it through before I gave that book of tales to you. You've just—been acting so much like your usual self, and you've always loved fairy tales—"

I cut him off with a wave of my hand. As much as it hurt to have this conversation, it was bound to happen. There was no reason for me not to forgive him. Plus, it was impossible to hold grudges against sweet Mr. Hughes, a lesson I had learned years ago.

"No need to apologize. How could you have known?"

He gave me a quizzical but concerned look. "Truly, Mr. Hughes. I am fine," I rushed to reassure him.

The expression lingered for a moment longer before he turned to face the wall again and called, "Well, I have no new fiction that does not include romance, but I do have a new book on flowering plants. I have yet to relocate it to its proper home."

I grinned as he said "home." One of my favorite things about Mr. Hughes was that he treated books as if they were living creatures. He treated them as if they had feelings and deserved utmost respect. Home to him did not mean the shelves where the books would stay; it meant home, companionship, family. The forty-something residents of this library were lucky to have Mr. Hughes, as was I. I too had began calling the library a home since they day I'd discovered it.

Mr. Hughes had presumably continued to speak as I had thought on my good memories. As I refocused my mind on the present, he concluded his speech with his usual, "Do you know where to find it?" 

I only nodded in response although his back was still turned. He had not been expecting an answer anyway; the two of us knew that I could navigate the small library as well as he could.

I stood up from my seat and made my way to the shelves. On the far left, there was a small section labeled, "New Arrivals." I drew the book from its place next to two other titles. Mr. Hughes had been right; both books included romance.