The Sorceress in Training_A Retelling of The Sorcerer’s Apprentice by Shari L. Tapscott

Author:Shari L. Tapscott [Tapscott, Shari L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-02-25T05:00:00+00:00

19

A length of sleigh bells above the door jingles as I step inside the book shop in the center of Heston’s most central square. Immediately, I’m hit with the smell of old leather, dust, and aging paper.

The shop is small, and the shelves are packed. Precarious piles also rest atop chairs, tables, and even the ground. A shopboy, not ten years old, stands on his tiptoes, muttering to himself as he skims a finger over the titles, looking for the proper place to shove a thick volume that’s never going to squeeze into the bookcase in front of him—or any other bookcase in the shop.

He turns when he hears the bells, frowning as if he’s displeased I’ve interrupted him. His eyes sweep over me, taking in my tunic and rapier. “The tavern’s two buildings down. Ale is only a copper a pint until five. He turns back to his task. “Careful, though. The barman raises the prices after nine. He figures that by that time, the lot of you are too drunk to notice.”

“Thank you for the tip,” I deadpan, hiding my amusement, “but I’m looking for a book.”

He looks back, frowning.

“Where’s your poetry section?”

“Poetry?” he parrots.

“Couplets. Rhyming. That sort of thing.”

His frown grows, and then his features suddenly smooth. “It’s to impress a girl, isn’t it?”

“Something like that.”

He leads me past several rows, depositing me in a dark corner, next to a wilting plant that leans so far toward the window, I’m surprised it hasn’t toppled out of its pot.

“I was supposed to water that,” the boy says, scowling at the plant. He then walks away without another word, leaving me to browse on my own.

Though I didn’t feel the need to prove myself to the shop whelp, I do read. Not poetry, as Brynn prefers, but stories of adventure. They’re an indulgence, something I don’t often have time for.

I only learned because Mother insisted it was an important skill and made me sit with her when I would have rather been outside, running through the village with a wooden sword. But I’m grateful for the lessons now.

Poetry, however, I think to myself as I choose a book from the shelf in front of me and cringe. I’ll never understand the purpose of flowery words, or why they make Brynn starry-eyed. But I do know she loves it, and that’s all that matters.

I skim through the book in front of me before I set it back on the shelf. Surely I can find something a little less droll than that.

Another book is dedicated to nature, a subject Brynn seems to be somewhat apathetic toward. I open another, pausing on the front page.

To Henrietta,

May this book express my feelings better than I ever could.

All my love,

Frederick

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