A Tale of Highly Unusual Magic Read Free

to one side of the bay window. I could write a novel at that desk, Leila thought. A really thick novel!
    The whole thing was old-fashioned and charming and absolutely not what she had expected to find. She felt like a princess, or like one of the characters in her favorite book series, Dear Sisters. In fact, she felt exactly like Elizabeth Dear, the bookish (yet still beautiful) sister, in the story where the two girls went to England and Elizabeth fell in love with someone who she thought was a stable boy, but who was really the son of an earl.
    â€œOh, I do so adore a library,” Leila said aloud in a truly awful English accent, thinking about how much she would love to have an adventure like Elizabeth’s. And in Pakistan, maybe she would! At least here, she had achance. Back home in the suburbs, it was impossible.
    Leila perused the shelves, hoping to discover a few good books. Most of these looked dead boring, like the ones her “academically gifted” younger sister, Nadia, liked to read. Depth of a River. Tom Wickersham. The Pealburl Papers.
    So remarkable, her sister, everyone gushed. So talented! Nadia Awan is the most brilliant girl at school!
    Ugh, Leila thought. Nadia Awan is so dull.
    She scanned to the end of a shelf, where her eye fell on one with a catchy title, The Exquisite Corpse .
    A corpse sounds promising , she thought. She liked mysteries, especially if they involved a girl detective. She reached for the spine, and then hesitated. After all, this wasn’t her house. It was her uncle’s house, but he probably wouldn’t mind. Then again, what if he does? Maybe I should ask. . . .
    â€œYes or no, girl? Don’t stand about like an indecisive sheep!”
    Leila screeched, whipping around. “W-w-what?” she stammered, staring at the man who had suddenly appeared behind her.
    The man pursed his lips, pointing his silver mustacheat the bookshelf. He wore a brown three-piece suit and brown bowler hat, and was definitely not her uncle. Her jaw dangled as she struggled to make sense of this man’s presence, his outfit, and his accent, all at once. To her jet-lagged brain, the man’s accent had sounded like, “Don stun aboo lie an indessclive ship!”
    â€œI’m sorry, I don’t speak Urdu,” Leila told him.
    â€œFor heaven’s sake!” The old man huffed, straightening his blue tie. “Don’t you understand English when you hear it? Idiot!”
    â€œWhat?” Leila asked again. She had understood the words “English” and “idiot,” but that was it.
    The man leaned on his cane and flashed his dark eyes at her. “Don’t just stand there like a fool,” he said, deliberately and slowly. “If you want the book, then you should take it!”
    Well, once he slowed down, the words finally managed to reach something deep in Leila’s brain. “Oh!” she said. “You are speaking English.”
    The man looked as if he had a very low opinion of her. “If you want a book,” he said again, “take one.”
    â€œI don’t really want a book.”
    He scoffed. “Of course you do.” He rapped on the floor with a silver-handled cane. Leila looked back at the book. She looked at the old man. She had no idea who he was, but she was fairly certain of one thing—he did not live in this house. Yesterday, the entire family had come to pick her up at the Lahore airport: her uncle, Babar Awan; his wife; and their three children. And now, here was some old man in a three-piece suit in the family library. Should I call 911? she wondered. Could she even use 911 in Pakistan? (Just to let you know: the number is 1122. But if you can’t remember that, and you’re having an emergency in Pakistan, just yell real loud.)
    It finally occurred to her to yell real loud, but Samir—her cousin who was only five months older than she was—walked right in and said, “Oh,