The Tolkien and Martin books are practically page-to-page, and their argument is getting out of hand. The Sanderson tome floats nearby, looking concerned—can a book look concerned?—and seems to sag with relief when I approach.
“I swear these two, I can’t get a word in edgewise. And trust me, I have many!” the thousand-page Sanderson tome assures me, following at my shoulder. I decide not to comment on that very obvious assertion and instead head straight for the stupefied woman who still hasn’t budged. I place myself between her and the books, getting her full attention the only way I can think to.
It takes a moment, but eventually she blinks a few times, her eyes focusing on me as she comes back to herself.
“Hi!” I chirp, far too loud to be honestly cheerful. With a hand on her shoulder, I guide her toward the front door. “Thank you so much for stopping in, but as you can see, we’re having a few issues, so we’re going to be closing early. But please do come back tomorrow for a book or two on the house!”
The customer looks back over her shoulder, her blonde braid whipping through the air. “But . . . how . . . ? The books . . . They’re . . .”
I laugh nervously. “Ha, yeah. Neat little trick, isn’t it?”
“There are no strings,” she continues in a faraway voice as if lost in a daydream, “and I touched one. It’s not a projection.” She turns her glassy gaze back on me and whispers, “It yelled at me.”
With a wave of my hand, I do my best to dismiss her concerns, feeling like the very definition of a gaslighter.
“I’m not surprised. Those Martin books can get pretty moody.” Because I don’t need to ask to know it was the Martin book.
“But—”
“Thanks for coming in!” I cry with a forced smile as I push her out the door. Before I can even close it behind her, thecustomer from the coffee bar goes flying out the door. They’re running so fast that I’m surprised there isn’t a dust cloud coming up from their heels.
I hurriedly flip the lock, turn the OPEN sign to CLOSED, and fall back against the door with an exhausted whine. In the time it’s taken Lucy and I to get everyone out of the store, several more bookish debates have popped up. Contemporary romance books are fighting with the new romantasy section about what constitutes an appropriate age gap, and closed-door romances argue with dark romances over the definition of consent. Several history books are in concise little groups, debating over the accuracy of obscure details, and the religion section is in an all-out war. The travel section is simply floating around the store from place to place, observing everything like lost tourists.
Not to mention the trinkets, toys, and decorations that have all decided to start their own activities along the floor of the store. Pumpkins are aligning themselves into a bowling lane, the skeletons have started line dancing (again!), and several brooms have started sweeping up little animal-shaped toys like zookeepers herding their inhabitants.
The entire store is in complete and utter chaos, and Lucy is chasing her new professional whipped cream dispenser across the counter.
I close my eyes for a breath to gather myself.
What would Grandma do?
I clear my throat and project my voice over the roar. “That’s enough!”
Everything freezes, and slowly, books, toys, decorations, and baristas alike all turn to look at me.
“I want every book back on their shelves by the time I count to five. One!” I hold up a finger.
The books all start talking over each other, and this time, their objections are directed at me.
“Two!” I hold up another finger.
“And what if we don’t?” one of the dark romances asks, as defiant and sassy as its heroine.
I narrow my eyes at it. “Any book not back on its shelf in three seconds gets sent back to the publisher.”
They all let out a collective gasp.
“Three.” Another finger.
The books all slump and slowly float back to their empty slots on the shelves, nestling into their spots among their brethren.
“Four, five.” I breathe, letting my hand fall to my side, limp. Every book is back on its respective shelf, and some sense of normalcy has started to return to Moonlit Pages.
“Now for the rest of you,” I mutter and push myself off the door, ready to get to work.
Chapter Thirteen
Elbow resting on the counter of the coffee bar, I prop my chin up in my palm and my heavy eyelids flutter closed before I force them back open. Across from me, Lucy puts the finishing touches on a steaming oat milk dirty chai latte and slides it in front of me. I stare at it, using a bit of magic to stir the spoon for me; I don’t even have the energy to lift my hand.
