The day seems to be dragging. Isla hounds me with questions about the booklet, which I all politely brush off. After all, I have to be trustworthy when I'll claim I've lost it in three weeks. It's also the reason I didn't bring it with me to school. That, and to keep me from reading it before eight o'clock this evening. What does happen, is that I get terribly distracted by all the questions I plan to ask Sorley when I'm back there.

During my English class I google mansions in Ireland, during Math I calculate he's about one hundred and forty-eight years old. Bummer. Isla distracts me at Dutch by chatting about her book, which she finished already. I'm not really paying attention, but it occurs to me that I can experience the stories she reads in a very different way. She would be insanely jealous if she knew. Would I be able to bring her with me into the story? That would be weird. And dangerous. Not something for a random test. Suppose I lost her and she gets stuck in there. However if it were possible, you would also be able to bring people out of the book. That is something I have to look into. I think I read something about it in the blue booklet. I just can't remember what it was.

"Are you coming to the café, later?"

I blink a few times to clear my head. In the meantime Isla continues: "The others are coming too."

The 'others' are three girls and two boys, one being Isla's boyfriend. They're more Isla's friends than mine. Most of the time I just hang around. Sometimes I make up an excuse to stay away, but today I can use the distraction. All four girls are bookworms and I think they find me rather curious for never reading a book. Oh well, that's about to change.

I nod and receive a radiant smile.

---

Less than an hour later I'm in almost the same spot as the day before. Only the situation is now completely different. The sun is shining, for one, but I also feel different. Relieved, if that's the right word for it. Relieved I don't have to behave so spastic any more whenever someone comes up with a book. That I don't have to stress out during English or Dutch and that I won't be so ridiculous in the eyes of the three girls who are now laughing about Isla's report on my adventure yesterday. My grin is a bit phony, but I'm glad they can joke about it.

"Had to be a real interesting book", Britt wiggles her eyebrows.

Ay, how am I suppose to respond to that? "Well, no, not so much."

"Really, you were completely off the grid for the remainder of the day. Glued with your nose to the pages, I swear." Isla pokes my arm with a finger.

"It's more a description than a story, actually. About a manor house in Ireland. I've been there once, so it was all very familiar." I'm not lying, not really. I have been there, haven't I.

Okay, I'm not completely rid of my curious-label yet. However the fact that I do read, is a vast improvement. They are actually surprised I can discuss some of the same books. But when I mention my e-reader, I get a bunch of pursed lips. Oh, right, this is the hard copy forever clique. I forgot.

While they chat about Three Tears, which they apparently all read, and the boys are playing with the giant chess set, my mind drifts of to Sorley in the nineteenth century. What would he be doing now? More parties? Or just work? He could be one of those clerk-people, writing down numbers all day and composing letters and walking around with a clip-board. Oh well, it's better than being the farm hand I suppose. Then I would have to talk to him between horse manure and prickly piles of hay. I never really became a horse girl.

At five o'clock we say goodbye. There's still some homework that needs to be done. After all I can't flunk this year.

At home I decide to fabricate a potato dish, seeing we're almost out of left-overs. We don't really have a cooking schedule, my mum and me. On weekdays she's mostly home late and she likes to cook elaborately in the weekend. My own culinary skills are quite impressive, if I say so myself, but I usually don't feel like it.

While I wait for the oven to heat, I get my homework and spread it all over the dining table. I eat in between the different stages of mitoses and try to pump all the different biological terms into my brain. After that I prepare a hypothetical experiment to calculate the quantities of H2, HCl and O2 from a mixture of chlorine gas and water vapour. Why oh why did I ever pick Chemistry?

Probably because with this profile you don't have to read so much. Aargh, I hide my head in my hands. Couldn't I have discovered the booklet a few years sooner?

The sound of a key being turned saves me from more formulas and relieved I close my Chemistry book.

"Zara."

"Hey, mum. I made a potato and leek dish, it's in the oven."

"Oh, did we have leek?"

Apparently leek lasts a pretty long time. It must have been in the fridge since our shopping trip from last week.

I glance at the clock. What? Only seven? What am I suppose to do for a whole other hour?

My mother picks up her plate and moves to the living room. I follow her. Watching TV is an excellent way to pass the time.

Not that there is anything interesting to see and our tastes are so clashing we can never watch anything together. Therefore I fold my legs under my bottom and stare vacantly at the lame diet-show my mum loves to watch. Every few weeks she makes an effort to begin some new diet. Then all of a sudden we have strange food in the house, like chia seed and goji berries. Last week there was an abundance of fresh vegetables, because we didn't get enough minerals. Hence the leek.

The program must have been more interesting than I thought, because I forget to look at the clock again until the credits scroll down and then I almost fall of the couch.

Shoot, it's eight already.

"You in a hurry?" My mother's disapproving look has more to do with the water I caused her to spill, than by me leaving at all. We're very good of living along side each other in this house.

"Yeah, meeting", I mumble. In the kitchen I shove the pile of homework back in my bag for tomorrow and then I run up the stairs. The blue booklet is still in the same place I left it the previous day. On my night stand. My backpack gets shoved in a corner, I lock the door and sit down on the edge of my bed. For a moment I hesitate. Where would I end up if I begin to read in the middle of my room? What happens then if I spend hours inside? Won't I eventually fall over from exhaustion?

Questions, questions, questions. No time for answers, Sorley's waiting for me. At least, I hope he is.

Open book at ribbon, first word, flash.

"Hey, Zara."

My face breaks open in a wide smile. "Hey, Sorley, had a nice day?"

I'm back on his bed and he's on his chair. It looks like he was waiting for me. How sweet. He looks more relaxed today. Has he been wondering about our strange situation as well? Or don't guys do that?

"What do you think will happen once I finish this book. Do you think you'll still remember me?"

He snorts one of those typical boy-snorts and shakes his head."What?"

"There she goes with the questions again."

My shoulders hunch automatically. "Yeah, that's what I'm here for. You haven't- I mean, this book isn't written very interesting, I'm not living some big adventure in it."

Woops, almost spilled the beans. Yes, this is a big adventure, but it's no Lord of the Rings. Ooh, that's what I'm going to do, follow the hobbits. Next time. When I'm sure nothing bad can happen to me.

"Do you know if anything can happen to you when you're in a book? Like, get hurt?"

"Do you keep asking questions or do you plan on listening to answers as well?"

I Immediately pinch my lips together and my head bobs faster than I meant to.

The corner of Sorley's mouth pulls up into half a grin and I give an apologetic smile. "Sorry", I whisper.

"During my first ... the first time I entered a book, I fell down. Rather hard. I should have broken my neck, but I didn't. It hurt a bit, but I was fine otherwise. No bruises, no wounds. Nothing. When I left the book, nothing showed, so I guess it's safe."

"So, when you get shot by the mafia, you're alright?"

Now he's the one to shrug. "Not my genre", is his dry remark which makes me laugh. No, books about the mafia won't appear in my reading list either. Did they write Lord of the Rings already in this time period? I dig in my brain, but don't find a number. Probably not.

"How did you discover your ability?" I should have picked History in school, then I would have been better informed about this era. Do all the kids go to school? Did they implement compulsory attendance yet?

I have to wait for my answer. Sorley gets up and pours two glasses of water. Is he merely being polite or doesn't he want to give an answer? Perhaps his throat is just dry. I take the glass from his hand and our fingers touch. It was but a second, but now my throat is dry. Quickly I gulp down the contents of the glass.

"I learned how to read, read a book in the evening and ended up in the story."

"Oh, just like me. What was your first book?"

"Ehm... I can't remember the title. Some boys thing."

Disappointed I take another sip from my glass. Oh right, it's empty. He seems to have difficulty with personal questions. The relaxed attitude from a minute ago has totally disappeared. Maybe I should pick a safer subject.

"Where in Ireland is this mansion?" When I was researching on the internet this afternoon, I found a lot of old buildings. Any of them could be the one this room is in.

This question is better. Sorley's shoulders drop a little and looking out of the window he replies: "County Cork, southern Ireland."

I follow his gaze and suddenly notice the rain is pouring from the sky. Too bad, there goes my walk.

Tons of questions about the building circle through my head, but I'll safe them for when I can actually see it. What did the booklet say in the beginning? I'm supposed to bring up subjects that make him begin to write this story after all. So we don't end up in some broken loophole or something. Like in those sci fi series my dad used to watch. Space, that's definitely on my list.

"Why do you think we can do this?" That is the biggest question I've been trying to find an answer to since yesterday. There are no famous authors in my family, at least, none that I know of. Did I get hit by lightning as a kid? I doubt it. Sorley doesn't have a clue either. He does something funny with his lips and then says: "Don't ask me."

We fall silent. His short answers don't really help to get the conversation going. Maybe he does it on purpose, to make me keep from coming back. But I have to, don't I? If he doesn't write this book, I won't find it and then ... I don't know actually. If I go home right now, I'll still know just as much as before. I can just leave him here in his attic, stewing in his own taciturn juice. There are plenty more interesting books out there for me to experiment with. If it's true this book already thought me more than he knows, I can't learn any more in here.

I look at him and try to read what's on his mind. His brown eyes have green spots around the pupils, rather lovely. The black dots in the centre constrict when his eyes widen.

It's not until he blinks I discover I've held my breath. Oh shoot, I've been staring. What would he think of me? The bookshelves! They are a save place to focus on. Breath in, breathe out. It's doesn't help much, I can still envision his eyes. Bushy eyebrows on top, straight nose in the middle. He's pretty handsome, in a nineteenth century kind of way. His hair has that weird gelled back, parting in the middle cut.

When he clears his throat I glance back his way, but he's not looking at me. There is a pen between his fingers that he twirls. It's a fountain pen with the same nib my mother has in her drawer with old junk.

"Are you a writer?" I pop out.

He looks up, eyes the pen in his hand and answers: "Sort of, I suppose. I take notes. Records, expenses, revenue."

"Like a clerk."

He gives a nod and places the pen back on the desk. My gaze follows his hand and lingers on the many cramped drawers. Just because there is no mention of the desk in the booklet, doesn't mean I can't ask what's in them, right?

"Cool desk, a lot of drawers, though, do you need all of them?"

A little startled Sorley looks over the piece of furniture and opens up the drawer closest to him.

"I don't know, actually. The desk was already here when I first came. I'm not exactly sure what's in it.¨

"Tss, aren't you the least bit curious?" I get up and walk over to him. There is paper in the one he opened, so I pull out the drawer above. More paper. Dull. When I squat down, I see a narrow line next to the board that is the side of the bottom drawers. There is no handle, but when I push against the wooden slat, it moves. On my knees I begin to yank the slat, but I can't get a grip. My fingers are to big.

"Do you have a knife? This could be one of those hidden spaces. How cool is that, we might discover some old will or something."

A snort above me tells me Sorley finds my idea ridiculous, yet after a brief moment, a pocket knife appears in my view. I fumble a bit, trying to open the thing without accidentally slicing off my fingers, but it won't open.

"Help?" I look up and hold up the knife for him. He laughs at me, but takes it and once again our fingers touch. It doesn't seem to bother him, our little, incidental moments of contact. However every time it happens, it feels like someone's holding up a huge sign in front of me that yells: you're alone with a boy in his bedroom!

In my haste to get the situation – and my heartbeat – back under control, I grab the now opened pocket knife at the blade. A sharp pain shoots through my hand and I cry out as I drop the knife. A big, red gash appears on my palm and the welling blood gets blurry when tears force their way out. That sure answers the question about getting hurt inside a book.

Sorley swears and presses something soft against the wound.

"Here, squeeze this, I'll get some water and bandages."

I don't see where he goes, because my hand hurts way to much and the tears block my view. Bleh, I'm such a baby, it's only a cut. I wipe my eyes with my sleeve and then I wait for Sorley to return. The knife is on the floor next to me. My blood on the blade. Something about the knife doesn't seem to add up, but my head won't cooperate at the moment.

"Ouch ouch ouch, stupid, stupid, stupid", I chant, balling my fist.

Suddenly Sorley is standing next to me. He kneels down and very gently takes my hand in his. It stings when he replaces the fabric – is that a pillowcase? – with a wet towel. A little clumsy he wipes the blood away and then puts something on the wound that looks a lot like a square of gauze. Would that be sterile? At least it looks bright white and clean. I don't have much experience with first aid, this being my first cut and all. However before I can examine the material any further, Sorley begins to wrap a bandage around it, pressing against the wound. No matter, when I get back home, I'll soke it in a gallon of disinfectant. By the way, why don't I do that right now? I can skip in and out of the book in no time.

But then, when I look up to suggest it, I bite my lip. Sorley's strained face is right in front of me and he is trying so hard to help me that I feel guilty even considering I can do a better job myself. It's a long dressing and he completely wraps the roll around my fist so I end up with a big white ball of cotton on my arm. Even if it still bled, it would take at least an hour for me to notice.

I look up in two brown puppy-dog eyes

"I'm sorry," he says, "I didn't hand it to you right."

"It's okay, I wasn't paying attention as I should. But you did a good job fixing it. It almost doesn't hurt any more." I wave my bandaged hand around to ease his mind.

Almost at the same time we look at the knife on the ground and he picks it up before I can take a better look. He wipes the blood of with the dirty pillowcase and folds it. We'll investigate the hidden compartment in the desk some other time. Next time I'll bring a screwdriver from home.

I sit back down on the bed and suddenly notice a red stain on my jeans. "Oh, shoot, I hope that comes out. What was it to use for rinsing blood? Cold or hot water? Oh well, I'll look that up later."

For a moment it remains quiet and then Sorley asks: "Do, do you want to go home?"

It almost sounds like he's reluctant to take me back home after a failed date and that thought makes my cheeks turn red.

"No", I practically yell. "Not yet, I'm fine."

"Won't your mother get worried when you stay away this long?"

"Nah, my mum and me ... we kind of do our own thing. I'm old enough to take care of myself and she accepts that."

He nods, as if he completely understands what I mean. I guess in a way he does. After all he's living all by himself in his employers house.

My gaze shifts back to my wrapped hand. "Why is it you think I did get hurt in here and you didn't in the other book?"

When he doesn't answer right away, I look up. His lips are pursed and around his eyes, there are dozens of wrinkles from squinting painfully. It scares me a bit, the way he looks. Is there something he's not telling me? Did he lie, about the fall that didn't hurt him?

"Sorley?" My voice is trembling.

When he finally does look at me, all the tension is replaces by regret. "I think you'd better go. Take care of your hand. In your ... home, you can do a better job than here."

I swallow a lump and whisper: "Same time tomorrow?"

There's a tiny flash of hope in his face, before he shrugs and says: "Whatever you want."