Madly by Amy Alward

live for this stuff. If not for the stale words and ancient advice within, then for the crackle of the parchment as I turn each page, delicately peeling the paper apart from its neighbor. The letters cling to each other like lovers, ink solidified by time into glue.
    I carefully leaf through the rest of the book. Nothing. But this is the thrill of the hunt for me—the research, sifting through words like they’re grains of sand, hunting for diamonds. The fourth stack of books is where I find the first sparkle of a gem. It’s the word “philtre”—the old word for love potion. But the excitement dies as quickly as it comes when I see evidence of the purge that happened well over a century ago, when love potions were classified as illegal. The first two sentences are still there, the thin black cursive letters dark spots upon the page: A philtre is one of the most dangerous potions known to mankind, for both the preparer and the taker. Proceed with the utmost caution. After that, the letters huddle together in a thick black mess, as if they are trying to avoid the spell to make them disappear. In the mass of letters I can make out a few ancient words—indicum and eluvium—but I have no idea if those are relevant or just a jumble. I’ve heard that the older a recipe is, the harder it is to truly destroy it. And now the evidence is there on the page, right in front of my face.
    Maybe I need even older books—and I know where to find them.
    It used to be one of our weekly rituals, a special secret between Granddad and me. I don’t know if he has ever taken Molly, and I’ve never asked—I like to pretend that he shared his love of books with me and me alone. I return to the front of the library and grab the key from its hook inside the doorway. It always puzzled me that Granddad kept the key out in the open, where anyone could grab it. Then his words ring in my ears. “It takes more than a key to open a door, little girl. You have to know where the lock is too.”
    And I do.
    I haven’t been in the room other than when Granddad has taken me, and as I touch the key, I feel a chill run down my spine. It’s never been expressly forbidden to me to enter the room on my own, but I’ve never had a reason to go in either—most of the books are so old, they are written in an ancient language I can’t read.
    The chill from the key is enough to make me pause. I hold my breath until my lungs burn, my heart beating in my ears. I don’t know what I’m listening out for—there’s nothing but a subtle hum from the lightbulb, and the muted clattering of pans in the kitchen from Dad doing the dishes. I let out the breath in one big whoosh and shake out my limbs, then pad over to the far side of the library.
    I have to crouch down to reach the right shelf, and it makes me suddenly smile to think that I am so muchtaller now than my granddad. He’s always seemed like such a giant in my life, but now at five-eleven and still growing, I tower over him—and most of the girls (and some of the boys) in my class. Sometimes I despise my lanky frame, and the massively overgrown feet that come with it, the arms and legs slightly too long for my body. Once, at Anita’s older sister’s wedding, the Patels tried to dress me in their traditional clothing—a beautiful blue-and-gold stitched shalwar kameez that made me feel like a princess—except for the fact that the trousers stopped way too high above my ankles and made me feel like a giant playing dress-up in a princess’s clothing.
    The red book stands out to me on the shelf like a sore thumb, but I can see how others would pass it by without a second glance. I take it down from the shelf and, sitting behind it, obscured in the shadows of the library shelf, is the lock. I slip the key in, turn it a quarter of the way, and feel the entire bookshelf jump to life and swing out toward