The bookhouse was unlike anything Ruelle had ever seen.
From the outside, it looked like an ordinary house where a widow lived alone. But inside, it felt like stepping into the inside of someone's mind.
Every room was filled with books. The walls almost disappeared beneath them, rows upon rows blending into shades of brown, red, green, and black. Some were bound in leather so old the corners had peeled, while others were patched together with thread.
Beneath the scent of lavender that slipped in through the open windows from the garden outside, she picked the smell of old paper.
"She's the fortune teller we met at the fair, isn't she?" Hailey whispered, leaning close.
