Page 2 of The Nook for Brooks (Mulligan’s Mill #6)

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Once upon a time, in a town small enough to fit inside a snow globe, there was a tower.

Not the ivy-clad, maiden-hair-down-to-the-ground kind.

This tower had fewer songbirds and more squeaky steps, as well as a window that got stuck on humid afternoons.

There was also an issue with the plug in the bathtub, but that’s for another story.

Nonetheless it was still a tower, inside which lived a boy who very much appreciated that his pinnacle afforded him the luxury of keeping the town at bay when he wanted to be alone, which was pretty much most of the time.

Not only did the boy like his seclusion, he also liked to keep his life neat and well arranged.

He preferred things that could be stacked, filed, or alphabetized.

He liked shelves that stayed level and chairs with four precisely even legs.

He wore pressed shirts because pressed shirts behave.

He wore bow ties because someone has to carry the banner for whimsy.

He boiled water, poured tea, and set the cup down exactly where the saucer waited.

It was not a dramatic life, but it suited him perfectly.

He never asked nor expected anything of anyone… and he wanted nothing but the same in return.

Oh, there was one other thing he liked—books.

Yes, how he loved books. All sorts of books.

Books that smelled like rain in a forest, and books that smelled like they’d been hiding in a cedar chest for half a century.

Paperbacks with crisp covers that still held their corners, and hardbacks so solid they felt like they might outlive him.

Slim novels you could read in one sitting and still think about for years, and enormous epics you had to commit to like a relationship.

He loved the clean snap of a page turning, the soft slide of a bookmark settling into place, that pause of respect as you finish a book you weren’t quite ready to say goodbye to, and characters who would live rent free in your head forever.

He loved leather bindings that whispered under your fingertips, gilt edges that caught the light, and dust jackets that fit so perfectly they could have been tailored.

He loved books that made him laugh out loud and books that made him set them gently in his lap just to recover.

He never cracked a spine, never let a cover curl, never left a book face down as if it were napping on the job.

To him, each one was a perfect, self-contained world—silent and steady, holding its breath in the dark, until the moment you opened it again and let the light spill out.

Yes, the boy would read book after book after book in the safety of his tower. Only when his eyes needed a rest would he look out from his high window, from which he could see the entire kingdom—or at least the parts worth watching.

The town was nestled within a handful of streets, with its quaint houses and colorful shopfronts. Through it meandered a river, lazy and cool in the warm days of late summer, and the park in the middle of the village offered a shady spot for birdwatching or avoiding one’s neighbors.

At the center of the park, a ring of stone circled an opening in the ground.

Some would call it a well. The boy had another name.

He called it “the Chasm of Lost Wishes.” A well suggested flower-haired maidens carrying buckets of fresh water as weary travelers quenched their thirst. A chasm suggested exactly what it was—a black hole which did not grant wishes but instead swallowed them whole.

He liked watching the chasm, not because he enjoyed seeing other people pining for their dreams to come true, but because the way a person approaches an edge tells you exactly what you need to know about them.

Some leaned in so far that the soles of their shoes almost left the ground, confident to the point of being reckless.

Some tossed coins from a distance, the gesture of someone who is careful what they wish for.

Some simply hovered, hands in pockets, refusing to throw their dreams to the wind with such abandon.

The boy respected the hoverers. They were his people.

Of course, as with any structure of fortitude, his tower came with rules.

He had drafted them himself and posted them where he alone could see.

Rule one: tea first.

Rule two: paperbacks do not belong face down on any surface, ever.

Rule three: leave the tower only when absolutely necessary, such as in the unlikely event of a fire, earthquake, or when the smell of Pascal’s freshly baked croissants wafted over the river and in through the window, beckoning the boy to partake of their buttery bounty.

The boy followed the rules. The rules rewarded him with an unremarkable peace that he guarded the way other people guard wealth. He had built a small, precise life and found it almost enough.

And sometimes “almost enough” was good enough.

That was until the day he arrived.

It was a hot afternoon toward the end of summer, when the cicadas were playing their one song on repeat and the sun blazed high above.

Suddenly a handsome prince entered the square.

He came dressed for travel rather than ceremony. His boots were scuffed and well worn. His tunic had many pockets, no doubt filled with the accessories of a traveler. And on a silver chain around his neck hung a compass, winking in the sunlight.

He had the kind of walk that suggested he was in no hurry to get where he was going, and the swagger of a man who enjoys the journey as much as he looks forward to the destination.

For a short time, he circled the town square the way newcomers often do. His smile was pleasing, his face handsome, yet there was also a glint of curiosity in his eye that the boy found somewhat intriguing.

Then the prince spotted the chasm in the middle of the park.

He went straight to it as if drawn by a spell and set his palms on the warm rim of stone.

He looked down into the dark then drew a coin from one of his many pockets.

He balanced it on his index finger and turned it once.

Twice. The boy could almost feel the wish brewing, the way the air gathers before a storm.

The prince flicked the coin into the chasm.

It flashed, flipping in the sunlight, and vanished.

The prince leaned further over the chasm, trying to see into the darkness.

Instantly the boy sensed danger.

He hauled open the window in his tower, about to call out a warning.

But he was too late.

Suddenly, something rose from the chasm.

At first it looked like the shadow of a ghost. Then it took on the form of smoke floating into the air. Then it gathered, like a flock of tiny birds. Only it wasn’t a flock.

It was a swarm.

And they weren’t tiny birds. They were—

“Wasps!” the boy shouted.

The prince’s wishful toss of a coin had disturbed a nest of wasps.

Very.

Angry.

Wasps.

Swiftly the boy stepped back from his window, set his teacup on the table with lightning accuracy, and ran for the spiral staircase. He moved quickly and precisely—there is a difference between panic and speed.

He reached the downstairs level—a library full of books—then shouldered his way out the door and into the bright sunlight.

He dashed heroically across the park toward the prince, who was already flailing and stumbling and trying to swat the wasps away.

Suddenly the boy had the prince’s hand in his grip. “Come with me!”

The prince did not resist.

Together they pivoted in a single motion, away from the chasm.

The door to the tower stood open before them.

The boy and the prince ran as fast as they could, hand in hand, outpacing the crazed and confused wasps before bolting through the open door and slamming it shut behind them.

They stood close enough for the boy to feel the heat coming off the prince’s skin and the sweet scent of his perspiration. He was aglow with relief and gratitude as he gazed into the boy’s eyes.

“Thank you,” the prince panted, a smile crossing his charming face.

“Are you hurt?” the boy asked.

“No. But I dare say my wish may never come true.”

The boy smiled. “I dare say… mine just did.”

And with that, the boy and the prince fell into each other’s arms, their lips locked together in a kiss so true it could outlast time.

From that day on, they lived happily ever after.

I lifted the page from my vintage Clementine typewriter with a zzzzzzip , looked at the story I’d just written, and sighed.

“If only it were that easy,” I mumbled to myself, before folding the piece of paper into a neat, teensy tiny square and placing it in the trash can beside my little writing desk.

As Johann Debussy’s Clair de Lune played gently on the record player, I stood from my chair, careful not to scrape the legs on the floorboards of my petite apartment in the steeple of the bookshop, and stepped over to the window.

Having once been the town’s church, the bones of the bookshop were solid, made from stone and solid wooden beams that kept the place warm in winter and cool in summer.

I didn’t realize just how hot it was outside until I opened the window and a gust of warm air blew in.

It also let in the sound of water babbling happily down the river and the playful chirping of birds in the trees overlooking Mulligan’s Mill Park.

I stared at Winnie’s Wishing Well in the center of the park for a few moments, wondering if indeed there was a wasp’s nest inside it. I wouldn’t be surprised. I imagined that chasm was home to worse things, including Winnie’s ghost—at least it was according to the old wives’ tale.

I wondered if one day a prince really would come along, and whether I’d rescue him from a swarm of deadly stingers… or he’d rescue me from my tower.

“Maybe someday,” I muttered. Although deep down I knew I had more chance of finding an original hand-written Tolstoy manuscript or a first edition of the Gutenberg Bible. Not that I was at all religious. No, the only thing I worshipped was books.