I am hiding again.

Tucked into the farthest, darkest corner of the library, which unfortunately happens to be the reference section, I sit curled against a shelf of encyclopedias, playing with the ends of my long brown hair. Imagining that it is golden and curled, like a princess from a storybook. Or raven-black, or flame-red, or any color other than plain, boring brown.

I pointedly do not look at my watch. Still, despite my best efforts, I cannot delay the inevitable.

“The library will be closing in five minutes,” a woman’s cheerful voice announces. Her enthusiasm makes me scowl. “Please finish your browsing and proceed to the checkout desk located in the main lobby.”

With a sigh I pull myself to my feet and grab my backpack. I have to go. Halfway to the lobby I remember that I don’t have a book with me. Mrs. Weaver, the librarian at the checkout desk, always looks at me funny when I emerge from my hours of seclusion without a single book to check out. I grab one off the shelf at random; I’m into the fantasy section by now, so hopefully it’s a good one.

“This looks interesting,” Mrs. Weaver remarks when I reach the front of the checkout line. “Kendra Valiant. She must be the main character.”

It’s a hardcover, but it looks old, bound in dark blue paper—no shiny dust jacket. The white barcode sticker on the spine looks odd and out of place, like it belongs to a different time entirely. It’s one of those books where the pages are tattered on the outside edge, to make it look fancy I guess. On the cover, the title, Kendra Valiant, is written is flowing gold script. An image is embossed in gold below—a girl with a wide smile, holding a long sword in one hand and a quill pen in the other. The phrase the pen is mightier than the sword comes to mind.

I step out into the warm spring air. Only a few more weeks of school before summer vacation. The sun is bright, and it makes me squint. For a moment I can almost imagine that I am somewhere else, that I am a hero in an oppressed world, that I have a great destiny.

I shake off the fantasy. My parents never miss an opportunity to remind me that I’m getting too old for dreams like this. That magic isn’t real, and I’d be better off if I stopped pretending.

But it feels so good to pretend that I am reluctant to listen.

✦ ✦ ✦

Later I sit alone in my room. The walk home was uneventful, as was dinner. As always. Even on weekends, my life is the same every day. Wake up early, eat breakfast alone, hide in my room and pretend to be asleep until my parents leave for work, do whatever homework I have and then run to the library to spend the remainder of the day among the bookshelves.

My homework is finished. I’m about to leave for the library when I see the book lying on my desk. I wonder what it’s about. If I’m lucky, it will be just the kind of book I like, with adventure and peril and treachery. I don’t like love stories so much, but I love epic friendships and betrayals. If the main character is a girl with a sword, count me in.

I pick it up and trace the title with my thumb. Kendra Valiant. A thrill runs through me and I open the cover.

On the first page is the title, printed in shimmering gold ink. Huh. I didn’t notice it before, but there’s no author. I flip back to the cover. Nothing there either. I turn the page, and there is a poem. No dedication, not even a copyright page. The poem is written in beautiful, loopy cursive—it almost looks handwritten.

 

My name is Kendra Valiant.

I write when I can,

Fight when I must.

I never miss a chance to put quill to paper.

I am keeper of sword and pen, pen and sword.

Who has the right to decide which is mightier?

Both have great potential, for good, for evil.

A sword can kill.

A sword draws life-blood from the wielder and opponent alike.

A pen can write.

A pen lets life-blood flow as ink onto paper.

The words I write are music, are stories

Woven from the strokes of a pen,

The creamy whiteness of paper, the midnight of ink.

How can these lines, these scratchings,

Ever hope to compete with the real, the true?

And yet what could be truer than this?

My name is Kendra Valiant, and my story is just beginning.

 

As soon as I finish, I read the poem over again. I wasn’t expecting poetry, but this wonderful, whimsical language is riveting. Not to mention the girl with the sword.

I turn the page to read the next poem.

It’s blank.

What?

I turn back a page. The poem is still there. I turn forward.

Blank.

I turn another page.

Blank.

Another.

Blank.

I flip through the book, frantically searching.

Blank, blank, blank.

I am tempted to throw the book across the room, but settle for slamming it shut and flopping backward on my bed.

It’s blank. Except for the title and that first poem, there is not a single word in Kendra Valiant.

Who would write a book with only one poem? Who would print that poem as a book with three-hundred-odd pages?

It must be a mistake, an error when the book was printed. I decide to bring it back to show Mrs. Weaver. She can contact the publisher and tell them that the book is a misprint. Maybe the library will get a new copy. Maybe then I can read the rest.

I pick up the book and open it again. I reread the first poem. Talk about a hook—it makes me want to just sit down and read for as long as it takes to finish the book. Which, of course, is not long in this case.

I turn the page, just for the sake of reminding myself that I can’t read the rest of the story. Instead, I get an even bigger shock than a blank page.

The page isn’t blank.

Words spiral across the page that was white a moment ago. Another poem, this one shorter:

 

How lucky I am!

To live beneath the stars,

To spend my days doing what I love most,

To watch the moon wax and wane and wax,

Silver to black to silver again.

How lucky I am!

 

I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. I open them again.

The poem is still there.

I flip through the pages. The rest is still blank.

I get up and scurry downstairs, bolt out the door, and run to the library as fast as my legs can carry me.

This is a mystery to be solved among the bookshelves.

✦ ✦ ✦

Ten minutes and a mile or so later, I sit in my favorite little alcove in the Reference section, curled up between a shelf world atlases and one of dictionaries. I open the book and read the two poems. Heart pounding, I turn the page.

Nothing. The third page is blank.

I scour my mind. What would one of my favorite literary heroines do in this situation?

My mind flicks to another mysterious book, the words My name is Harry Potter melting into the paper.

I pull a pencil out of my pocket—thank goodness I’m prepared for once—and write My name is Lena Joyce in shaky letters on the blank page.

They do not sink into the paper and disappear.

Nothing happens.

I close the book and lean back with a sigh. Is it possible that I was imagining things? Did I accidentally turn two pages and miss the second poem at first?

Or…

The second poem only appeared after I closed the book and opened it again. Is that it?

I open the book and flip to the third page.

 

My name is Lena Joyce.

 

Nice to meet you, Lena.

 

Ohmygoodnessohmygoodness. This is real. This is really happening.

What do I write now? I scrawl I can’t believe this is happening and flip the book quickly closed and open again.

 

Really? Then you should practice believing. I find it a very useful skill.

 

A giddy laugh bubbles out of me and I write, Has anyone ever told you that you’re hilarious?

Before I can close the book, the words flow across the page in neat, precise strokes.

 

Hilarious? I was being perfectly serious. But no, I don’t believe I’ve ever been told that I’m hilarious. Then again, I’ve been alone for quite some time.

Why don’t you tell me about yourself, Lena?

 

I consider what to say, then decide to just make it up as I go along. At least I have a pencil, and can erase what I write.

 

I am 12 years old and in 7th grade. I am tallish and have long brown hair and brown eyes. I love to read.

 

Again the words appear before I even close the book.

 

Well, I am 13. I do not know what you mean by “7th grade.” I love to write and run and climb trees. I love the sun and the moon and the stars and the sky. I love to learn and to be free.

 

What do you look like? I write.

 

I do not see why it matters so much, but if you like, I will show you.

 

And in long, flowing lines, a picture begins to appear on the next page.

At first all I see is a tree, but then a girl appears slowly, stroke by stroke. She is sitting with her back to the tree, holding a book on her lap and a feather pen in her hand—almost exactly the same position I am in. She has long wavy hair, and there is a smile on her face, a smile that holds secrets I can only begin to imagine. Next to her in the grass lies the long sword she is holding on the cover—for this is clearly the laughing girl embossed in gold on the front of the book.

And then, as if from a single drop of magic ink, color spreads across the page, starting in the center and bleeding outwards.

The girl’s hair is long and black, but her eyes are brown like mine. Her skin is a few shades darker than mine, but still pale enough to be called white. The book is deep blue like the one I hold, and the sky is dark and filled with stars. Moonlight glints off the sword’s blade, the book’s pages, Kendra’s hair.

I turn the page, ready to write something. At the top of the page is a single sentence:

 

Do you believe in magic?

 

Of course not, I write without thinking, thousands of lectures from my parents and teachers crowding into my head.

 

What a shame.

 

Do you? I scribble, before I can realize how stupid of a question that is to write in a magic book.

 

What a question! Do I believe in magic?

 

Magic flows in the breeze, in the very air we breathe.

Magic runs in the streams and the rivers, in the relentless waves of the ocean.

Magic flickers in flame, pirouetting, dazzling my eyes.

Magic thrums through the earth, feeding the roots of trees.

Magic runs in my blood and yours, and everyone else’s.

Magic is the ink I write with, the pen I hold, the paper, the words that spill across the page.

Magic is the very life of the world.

 

Do I believe in magic?

Magic is everywhere, whether you believe it or not.

I believe.

I believe that I can harness the life-blood of the universe, and therefore I can.

And I do. Every day, I do.

 

So let me ask you again.

Do you believe? Do you believe in magic?

 

Of course, I write, and never have words felt truer.

 

Of course. Yes. Yes, I believe.

I believe in magic.

How good it feels to believe, with all my heart and mind and soul.

 

There you go, Kendra writes, and I can almost see her smile. We’ll make a poet out of you yet.

 

But I’ll never be a warrior like you.

 

A poet and a warrior—are they not the same?

 

I smile. Yes, I write. Yes, I suppose they are.