Chapter 4
Eli
My first reaction upon entering the room is disbelief.
"This is..." I trail off, unable to find the right words as I take in the staggering collection before me.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stretch in every direction, seemingly defying the physical dimensions of the library itself.
Ancient texts line each shelf, their leather bindings in various states of preservation, from crumbling to surprisingly pristine.
The air carries the unmistakable scent of old paper—that distinct combination of dust, leather, and something else. Something almost sweet, like vanilla but earthier. The perfume of centuries.
"Impressive, right?" Michael says, clearly pleased by my stunned reaction. He's been chattering happily since collecting me from the entrance, and I'm grateful for his ability to carry the conversation. It allows me to absorb everything without the pressure of maintaining small talk.
I run my fingers along a shelf, the raised spines humming beneath my touch. "How did you even collect this many books on an island? The salt air alone would—"
“Destroy them?” Michael finishes with a knowing smile. “That's where the magic comes in.”
As he says it, I notice the shimmer in the air—almost imperceptible unless you know what to look for.
Protective wards. The ones around the room are strong, steady, humming with quiet power.
But the ones surrounding the books themselves…
they’re different. Still present, but dulled, like a once-vibrant painting left too long in the sun.
"The entire room is warded," I murmur, feeling the gentle buzz of magic against my skin.
Michael nods enthusiastically. "One of the strongest magical containments on the island.
Has to be. Some of these texts date back to the 1500s.
" He gestures to a glass case in the corner.
"We've got a first edition Malleus Maleficarum over there, though I don't recommend reading it—terrible propaganda, obviously. "
My initial frustration about agreeing to this full-time position during my break dissolves as I scan the shelves with growing excitement. This is a treasure trove of knowledge that could contain almost anything.
Including, perhaps…
My heart rate quickens at the thought.
Cyrus Whitlock spent twelve years on Magnolia Cove. Twelve incredibly productive years, during which he wrote some of his most groundbreaking work on Welsh mythology. If there were any signed copies of his books—any at all—they would likely be here, perhaps gathering dust in this very room.
I can almost hear Dr. Chen's voice in my head, her knowing smirk when I'd mentioned my summer plans.
Still chasing one of the mythical signed copies?
I'd shrugged it off like it didn't matter, but of course it did.
Finding a signed Whitlock would be more than just a rare book acquisition; it would be the culmination of my entire academic career.
"You must have a powerful witch or warlock to maintain this room," I comment, noting how the space seems to expand beyond what should be physically possible. Magic like this requires constant attention, regular renewal.
Michael laughs and rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Oh yeah. Head Warlock, Dean Markham. Have you met him?"
"I have." The memory of my meeting with Dean Markham is still vivid.
I'd needed his approval to stay on the island for the season, magical pocket communities being cautious about long-term residences to protect their secrets.
Being in his presence had been like sitting before a roiling fire of magic—intense, almost uncomfortable.
Though in all fairness, I find most social situations uncomfortable, so perhaps that was nothing unusual.
"He's… a lot," Michael continues, "but he takes the protection of these texts seriously. We couldn't maintain this collection without him."
I nod, absorbing this information as we continue our tour. Michael points out sections organized by era, by subject matter, by magical properties. My fingers itch to begin examining them immediately, to lose myself in their pages.
"—and if you want to join us for lunch some days," Michael is saying, "the break room is behind the circulation desk. Maria brings homemade cookies on Fridays."
"What are the other librarians like?" The question comes out smoothly, surprising me with its ease. But I know immediately why it flows so naturally—I'm asking about Rhianna. I'm thinking about Rhianna.
I haven't stopped thinking about her since our encounter yesterday. Her laughter still rings in my ears, the cadence of her voice like a song I can't get out of my head. The way she'd argued with me about music with such passion, such conviction—it was magnetizing.
This morning, walking into the library to meet Michael, I'd passed her. She crouched down to speak with a child, her flowing skirt draped like a flower petal across the polished floor. Dark curls tumbled down her back, catching the light from the stained glass windows above.
"Of course I can find the perfect book for you," she'd said to a wide-eyed little girl. "It's my specialty."
Then she'd accepted the child's outstretched hand and skipped—actually skipped—to the children's section, her bracelets jingling with each movement.
It was like watching joy embodied. I came to Magnolia Cove seeking something to make me feel alive again, to break me out of the monotony I'd fallen into—especially after Mark’s death. And stumbled directly into Rhianna Wilder, the most vibrantly alive person I've ever encountered.
I've tried to think of a plausible excuse to talk to her again, rolling possibilities around in my mind until they're worn smooth like river stones. But everything I come up with sounds contrived, forced.
"—mostly keep to themselves," Michael is saying, and I realize I've missed part of his response. "Claire handles non-fiction, she's super organized. Rhianna runs the circulation desk and children's programming, she's basically the heart of the place. Everyone loves her."
I try not to look too interested at the mention of her name. "I met Rhianna. She seems... passionate about her work."
Michael chuckles. "That's one way to put it.
Rhianna's passionate about pretty much everything. Last month she convinced the entire staff to dress as characters from Greek mythology for a special storytime. Dean Markham even attended. He didn’t participate, of course, but she somehow got the rest of us to go along with it.
" He shakes his head, fondness evident in his expression.
"I was Apollo. Had to wear a laurel wreath for six hours. "
The image makes me smile despite myself. I can easily picture Rhianna orchestrating such an event, her enthusiasm sweeping everyone along in its wake.
"You'll get to know everyone soon enough," Michael assures me. "It's a small staff. We're like family."
Family. The word sits oddly in my chest. I've never really belonged anywhere outside of my own family and academic circles, where connections are formed through shared intellectual interests rather than emotional bonds.
The idea of this close-knit library community both appeals to me and makes me nervous.
What if I don't fit in? What if my social awkwardness keeps them at a distance?
But then I think of Rhianna again, of how easily she drew me into conversation despite my usual reticence. Perhaps this place is different. Perhaps I could be different here.
"So," Michael says, gesturing expansively around the room, "this will be your domain for the next few months.
We desperately need someone with your expertise to catalog everything properly, assess what needs restoration, and strengthen the protective wards where needed.
Maria mentioned you have a particularly strong talent for book preservation spells? "
I nod, grateful to be back on comfortable ground. "Yes, it's been my focus alongside my academic work. Books are... well, they're more than just objects to me."
"I can tell," Michael says with a knowing smile. "Well, I'll leave you to get acquainted with your new charges. You’ve seen your office already. If you need anything, I'll be at the reference desk until closing."
As Michael's footsteps fade, I'm left alone in the hushed sanctuary of ancient texts. The silence wraps around me like a comfortable blanket, broken only by the occasional creak of old wood and the whisper of magic sustaining the room.
I graze the book spines nearest me again, feeling the subtle variations in leather and binding techniques. Some of these books have survived centuries, outliving their creators, their readers, entire civilizations. There's something profoundly humbling about that.
Rhianna dances back into my mind as she’s done repeatedly for the last 24 hours.
We’re meeting tomorrow at The Whimsical Whisk.
It's not a date, I remind myself firmly.
It's a consultation so she can try to match me with someone else—someone who might be compatible with my quiet, ordered life. Someone who isn't her.
The thought makes my chest tighten inexplicably. Which is ridiculous. I barely know her.
And yet... There was something about our interaction yesterday.
The way conversation flowed between us without the usual awkward pauses and stilted responses that plague my interactions with new people.
The way her eyes lit up when she talked about music, even when disagreeing with me. The natural ease of it all.
I pull a book from the shelf—a treatise on Welsh dragons from the 1700s—and carefully open it. The pages are brittle but intact, protected by fading preservation spells that need reinforcement. As I begin examining it, letting my magic assess the condition of the binding, I find myself smiling.
Tomorrow, I'll see Rhianna again. I'll have a reason to talk to her, to hear her laugh, to watch her hands gesture animatedly as she speaks. I'd face any level of social anxiety for that.
For now, though, I have these books. This quiet, this peace, this purpose. I settle deeper into the work, letting the familiar process of examination and preservation ground me. But even as I lose myself in centuries-old texts, a part of my mind remains fixed on tomorrow.
On her.
On the possibility of something I hadn't come to Magnolia Cove expecting to find.