“Green goo bubbles in a cauldron in the center of all this chaos. On a pedestal in front of it, a book is open. The old lady leans over the book so it almost touches her nose and peers at the page. “Marshmallows. No, that can’t be right. Jason,” she shrills. “Read this for me.”“Marjoram,” Jason reads.”

“She unscrews the cap, sniffs it, and then shrugs, dumping the entire contents into the bubbling brew. “It could be marjoram, but it might be mushrooms. I had a bottle of poisonous, green ones I dried out last winter on the solstice. Oh well.”Leaning out over the cauldron, she stirs thrice counterclockwise, using the wooden spoon with a handle about as tall as she is. Then she scoops a bit and brings it to her mouth for a taste.“No!” Jason and I scream at the same time.She blinks at us. “What?”“You just put something that may be poisonous in there,” I say.”

“I should like to write my books only for the dear person who lies awake reading in bed until page last, then lets the open book fall gently on her face, to touch her smile or drink her tears.”

“Books were her refuge. Having set herself to learn the Russian language, she read every Russian book she could find. But French was the language she preferred, and she read French books indiscriminately, picking up whatever her ladies-in-waiting happened to be reading. She always kept a book in her room and carried another in her pocket.”

“The book smelled dusty and old but also carried a sweet tang, a hint of something inviting. She opened to the first page and started to read, pronouncing the words in a reverent whisper.”

“Promiscuity is like never reading past the first page. Monogamy is like reading the same book over and over.”