The night is still young, so I dive back into 'You and I'. Of course I end up in the middle of the fight I forgot all about. Because my head is still with Sorley's rather abrupt departure, I miss most of the reasons why they fight at all. However I don't really care. Poor Sorley, both his parents gone. My situation back home suddenly doesn't seem so bad any more. My dad may live in a completely different part of the country, at least he's alive. It's high time I go see him again.

---

Not until late at night, when I lay in bed with painful eyes – like I've been staring at tiny letters with a faulty bed light – do I think about the light in the attic room. When I left Ally's book, it was night over there and daytime here. That book had it's own rhythm, yet Sorley's booklet doesn't, that seems to adapt to me. Would he notice that as well?

And what would have happened if he hadn't been reading his book, precisely these past few days? Would I have met him at all? It's such a coincidence.

I press my palms against my eyes. Ouch. Apparently my hand isn't completely healed yet. This is getting far too complicated. Are there rules? Are we breaking rules by going back to the same spot over and over again? What if we mess up some other universe?

My legs kick the air beneath my duvet and then I drop them again with a loud thump. How's a person suppose to sleep like this? My phone is on my night stand and I pick it up to check the time. Forty minutes past midnight. Forty one. Forty two.

The photos!

I shoot up straight, slide my finger over the combination and press the icon to get to my images. Did I only make two? Oh, and a film. I press that one first.

A white image appears. No, not quite white. I zoom in, there are letters, indecipherable. Is that a page from a book? When did I shoot that? The page gets turned and then the film ends. I press play again, but the film doesn't change. Of course. Back to the overview I click the photo next to it. That one is also white. I squint my eyes, there's letters as well. What is going on here?

The last picture, which is the first one I took, is the one Sorley's in and I'm almost too afraid to look. The little square example isn't completely white, which gives me hope and with the tip of my finger I tap the picture.

I exhale with relief. There he is. Crooked smile and all. Only the background is strange. Not the dark attic, but white. Was he in front of the window? He wasn't, wasn't he?I zoom in again with my thumb and index finger. There's letters. Letters in white. Unreadable, yet clearly recognizable.

I stare at my phone as if it suddenly sprouted horns. So long, that the screen turn dark and dies.

No proof. There goes my plan to explain to Isla what I can do, if and when I ever work up the nerve, that is. No, most of all, I'm upset for me. Terribly. I can't take pictures of my adventures in books, I'm the only one who can see what's inside. Something is wrong with my freaking eyes and I'll never be able to show any one my ability. Only Sorley understands. And he is halfway around the world. Without Instagram.

I open the app and type his name, in hopes he created an account by now. But no, too bad. I allow myself a miniature smile when I look at his photo again. At least I have that. He is real. That's one thing the photo does prove. Everything that belongs in the book, appears as letters on a white canvas, but Sorley doesn't belong in the book.

With the phone in front of me, I lay down again. Every time the screen turns darker, I tap his nose, until my arm gets too heavy and I let the phone turn off.

"Tomorrow evening, eight o'clock. I'll be waiting for you", I whisper against the dark.

---

Isla texts me to ask if I really, really, really can't come to the beach and I text back that I really, really, really can't. In the kitchen, with my mum, I continue the chick-lit the normal way and discover how the nerd defends Ally's honour, which gets him a date. Where after Ally learns he's cuter than she thought. Very predictable, but it's a nice read. A little simple, yet flowing. An hour and a half later, I put it aside.

"Since when do you read books?" my mother asks from behind her laptop across from me.

"Since recently. I found out they don't eat me." I grimace to her screen, cause my mother doesn't look up and with the book under my arm, I leave for my room.

There are two more books I brought from the library. Both are in my school bag and when I take them out, I plop down on my bed. I hold a book in each hand. Which one first? The science fiction or the fairy tales? Actually, I'd much rather get inside an other book, but he won't be there. In Boulder it's now – let's do the Math – two at night. Sorley is asleep. I hope.

Oh, but there is another book I can read. I toss the two on my bed and grab my cell. When I turn it on, two brown eyes stare at me above a crooked smile. "Mornin'", I hum, before sliding him away. What was it called again? Oh, right, 'Brotherhood'. I type the word in Google's cheery search bar. Eh... right, new query: Brotherhood book Ireland Michael O'Shea. I should have asked for the authors name.

This time the hits make more sense. I copy paste the authors name in the search bar from the library page. Yes! Cheering silently I raise both arms. Only the Dutch version. Oh well, that doesn't matter for my plan. What's more important is whether it's available or not. It says it is. Should I reserve a copy or race to the library? I do both.

Outside the weather is as lovely as promised. My spring coat is plenty warm and I bring my purse. That's big enough for one book. Hopefully it's not too big. "See ya", I yell at my mother, who is still in the same place.

"Will you be home for lunch?"

"Yeah, I'll be right back."

I close the door behind me and get my bike from the shed. It's only a short ride to the library down town. I can do it on foot, but I'm in a rush.

Out of breath I reach the tall building and I all but toss my bike against the wall. Is the library even open? On Saturday it won't open until later in the day. Thankfully the doors move aside for me. Where would the book be? It's not a romantic novel, at least, it didn't sound like one. Thriller? History? After dawdling for three seconds, I run for a computer and let it help me.

Five minutes later I'm back outside with the book in my arms. I'm all exited and skip to my bike. I don't even care the book won't fit into my purse. Sorley must be a very enthusiastic reader to voluntarily pick such an elephant.

I carefully pin the book beneath my straps and slowly cycle home. In the meantime my mother moved to the living room and drinks a cup of coffee while watching TV. I don't stop to find out what it is, but walk straight up to my room. Plenty of time to see the mansion before lunchtime. I don't even bother locking the door.

It's strange to step into a book that I already know so much about. Even more strange than stepping into 'Paper walker'. I know who I'm about to meet and I also think I know what will happen. I found this book in the historical romance section. What either means it sticks to true events and therefore ends bad, or they gave it an unrealistic happy ending. I think it's the first and get it why Sorley didn't want it to end.

How much time will the story take, when I walk in it from beginning to the end? Four hours? Five? I'm a rather quick reader, but somehow I don't think I can do this in less than five hours. Did Sorley spend so much time alone in his room? Or where ever it was he was reading? Maybe he stayed up all night.

I open the book and get ready for the flash.

For a moment I'm confused. It's not the attic room I enter and that's what I expected. In stead, I'm standing in a large area that looks like a ballroom. Only it's filled with chairs and benches and coffee tables and men in brown suits smoke cigars. Thick smoke whirls around me and waving my hands in the air frantically, I try not to cough. Next to me is a young man with curly reddish brown hair. He has his arms crossed and looks gruff. Is this Michael? Behind him I see the exit and without paying any more attention to the men, I run towards the door. Through it, I find a large hallway with enormous, glass windows n both sides of the door. I keep running and find another hallway that leads to a high, round tower. Right in front of me is the entrance and then I'm outside. In the middle of a forest as it seems.

I didn't meet anyone on my way out. Would they be frozen, like Ally was, waiting for me? I get how you can remain in a story like that.

Staring up at the arch above the doors, I realize the attic room isn't as high up as I thought. Behind which window is the room Sorley was in? I probably need to walk along with Michael to end up in that same space. Just like I had to do years ago when I stayed with Lynn on the ranch. Like a guest, who stays in the guest room that isn't mentioned anywhere in the book. It makes me curious and so I walk back inside.

The men are still smoking and talking and Michael still stands with his arms crossed, eyeing a rather important looking man up ahead. Is that his father?

I don't feel like waiting for the story to tell me what I want to know and walk up to Michael. "Hello, my name is Zara. Can I get a room here?"

The red-haired Irishman looks at me and begins an angry rant about how his father jeopardizes his, and the entire families lives with his incendiary speeches.

I'm beginning to understand the different ways books commence with their stories. Lynn's story started in the middle of an event. Not much got explained and as a reader you just get pulled along and things become clear along the way. With Ally I was given separate doses of information and over here I think the Michael in the book is thinking all this in stead of saying it out loud. At least nobody else seems to hear him. I understand why Sorley was compelled to stick around. Michael is passionate and I can only nod at everything he says.

An intense argument with his father ensues when he finally vocalizes some of his concerns to the men present. He gets send out and I follow him.

We walk up a magnificent spiral staircase in the tower and reach an equally wide hallway that has a lot of doors. On our right there's an other stairwell, but we walk past that. He directs me at the first door on the left and leaves me there. For a moment I stare indecisively at the door. Shall I go in, take a quick look around, or do I follow Michael? My hand is already on the doorknob and without further ado, I push the door open.

There he is. Sorley's attic room. Everything is exactly the same. The shelves filled with books, the desk with the many drawers, the bed. I walk inside and take a seat on the mattress. And then I look around. Something's missing and it's really stupid, because I know exactly what it is. Or rather, who it is. My brief quest for the book got me exactly what I wanted. I saw the house and now I know I didn't even come here for the house. I wanted to see Sorley and that is dumb, because Sorley's not in this book. He doesn't belong here and I can search through a thousand copies of this book but I'll never find him in here.

"Brotherhood, the end."

I shut my eyes and wait for the flash.

The flash doesn't come.

I say it again and again nothing happens. What's going on?

A bolt of panic seizes my heart rate. This cannot be happening. Did I manage to pick the one book for which the exit-words don't work?

"Hey!" I swing around and run out of the room "Michael? Where are you?"

He's seems to be waiting for me in the wide hallway. "What is the matter?"

How in the world am I going to explain this?

"Ehm... do you know Sorley Connor?" Fingers crossed.

"I'm about to get changed for a ride over to the Collinses. Meet me downstairs in ten minutes."

He ignores my question. I guess that's an answer in itself. I take a very deep breath and trudge back to the room that is appointed to me. The attic room that isn't in the attic. Inside I open up a wardrobe and behold, there's clothing inside. Strangely enough they're for ladies.

A ride. Wait a minute. Does Michael mean I have to ride a horse? Oh boy, I've only done that at fairs a few times. And that was on small ponies. This will probably be on a giant stallion, or something. What do you wear in the nineteenth century when you are horse riding?

I pull something out and hold it in front of me. It's a skirt. Yeah, that was to be expected in this time. Riding sideways, wearing a skirt. Can't I just wear my own clothing?

While changing, I try to leave the book a few more times, yet I'm not going anywhere. This is so inconvenient. I wish I hadn't locked the door. Oh wait, I didn't lock the door. My mother is bound to come look for me, so all I have to do is hang on and play along until lunch. I am so relieved. I take the skirt and pull it over my skinny jeans, no way I'm taking those off.

Michael is once again waiting for me in the hallway and even if he thinks my outfit is strange, he doesn't comment. I follow him downstairs and moments later we walk on a gravel path towards the stables. Two horses await us, saddled and all and I take a deep breath. Right, I got this. The horse isn't as big as I'd imagined and there is a stable boy with his hands at the ready. I want to place my left foot in his makeshift step-up, but he says: "Your other foot, Miss."

My right foot? Won't I end up backwards on the horse? I look up at the saddle, see the strange construction and understand. I have to get up like mounting an enormous barstool. Okay, fine, I can do that too. My long skirt is beginning to annoy me, so I just pull it up, real high, so I can watch my feet. Screw being ladylike, I'm wearing pants anyway. This time I place my right foot in his hands and set off with all my might, while he pushes me up.

I totally misjudge. My jump, his strength, it's all way too much and when I'm high enough, I'm not properly in the side saddle, I'm flying over it. Screaming my head off.

With a groan I end up on my back on the other side of the horse and immediately I begin to yell ouch. More out of habit actually, because when I stretch my arms and legs, I don't feel a thing. My back doesn't even hurt. As if I've fallen on an air mattress. I quickly leap up. This has to be what Sorley meant. Then it's also true what he thought about me getting hurt because the knife had come with him and wasn't from the book. I'm not entirely ready to test that theory by picking up a knife from the kitchen over here and stabbing myself to see if I bleed. However it's good to know I don't have to fear broken bones during the ride.

Before I can try the mounting again, I get jolted back into my room with a flash and my mother knocks on the door. She doesn't wait, but sticks her head around the corner.

"Didn't you hear me call? What, in heavens name, are you wearing?"

I frown and look down, than I burst out laughing. I'm still wearing the skirt, wonderful.

"Oh, nothing, something for school. Drama, never mind. Sorry, I didn't hear you. I'll be right there."

The skirt isn't dirty and my shoes are the same as when I came home from the library. I only now realize I forgot to take them off when I got home. I pull down the skirt and fold it neatly. Would it be worth something? A real nineteenth century horse-riding skirt? Sorley must also still have his brown suit if he got out of the story with it. If he went to find those bandages as frantically as I did, I wonder what his grandmother had said.

I put the book on top of 'Paper walker', take a step towards the door and then suddenly freeze.

The title. I hurl around and stare at the big letters on the cover. 'Broederschap'.

"Oooh", with my fist I hit myself hard against my forehead. "Dutch, it's the Dutch version. How incredibly stupid am I."

"Zara, I'm clearing the table", I hear my mother calling and slam the door behind me on my way down.

"What did you do to your forehead?" she asks, when I walk in the kitchen.

"Nothing", I grumble, still mad at myself for the stupid mistake.

We eat in silence, until my mother airily remarks: "Your father asks if you want to spend a few weeks with him this summer."

I almost choke in my Brie sandwich and am about to yell my automatic answer: no, when I think about Sorley. He has to miss his parents, whether he wants to or not, so I change my mind. It's still my father, no matter how shitty he treated me and mum and no matter how angry I've been at him for leaving us. I have to at least try to keep him in my life.

"Maybe", I answer softly, sliding back and forth in my seat.

"I'll suit me rather well, actually. There's this seminar in Belgium I want to attend."

Oh great, she just wants to get rid of me. Thanks mum.

"I'm almost seventeen, can't I stay at home by myself?"

"You won't be seventeen until after summer vacation and I don't want you here alone for more than a week."

I mutter something about the fact I can take care of myself just fine, but don't argue any further. Maybe we can compromise. Spend a week at dad's and a week at home by myself. I can live with that. I don't really feel like spending more then a week with someone I might not like. Imagine we can't get along or worse, get into a huge fight? No way I'm sticking around after that. I don't even know where he lives.

Summer vacation isn't until five weeks, enough time to sort things out.