order .â
Isabella slammed the phone down, ending the conversation. Tara clung to the slippery marble, her ears ringing with what she had just overheard.
Her grandmother knew . She was a . . . spellbinder ! But what did that mean, being a spellbinder? And Fabrice was one too, apparently. Except that in his case it wasnât usual. The count was the guardian of a portal that gave off some sort of emanations. But a portal to where? And what was this mysterious high council?
Her head buzzing with questions, Tara didnât know what to do. And she suddenly felt that her grandmother was a stranger to her.
Then she stood bolt upright on her perch: Betty! Her best and most faithful friend, who had never breathed a word about anything Tara ever told her. She would talk to Betty. Tara wasnât a mutant after all; she was a spellbinder. And she did magic, not telekinesis.
Tara leaned toward the ladder, very cautiously stretched her leg out, and began to shift her weight from the mantelpiece to the ladder.
But she had forgotten one small detail.
The ladder was as close as possible to her, but was free to roll the whole length of the library in the other direction. And thatâs exactly what happened.
With a gulp of surprise, Tara felt her support slipping away. She jerked her leg back but instinctively hung onto the ladder. So she wound up with her tiptoes on the mantelpiece and her hands desperately clutching the ladder, with her body bridging the empty space in between.
She stayed suspended like that for a couple of tense moments, unable to make a move.
The problem was that the bookcase hadnât been designed to take the weight of a girl twisting every which way in an attempt to regain her balance. A sharp snapping sound froze Taraâs blood. She looked at the top of the bookcase and turned pale. With a dull creak, the metal fasteners that held the bookcase against the wall were popping out one after another.
Tara could feel sweat running down her back. She absolutely had to climb back onto the mantelpiece before a total catastrophe happened. Eyes wide, she watched as the last fasteners gave way. With an apocalyptic rumble, the bookcase slowly began to topple. Tara was yanked off the chimney, the books tumbled out, and all was lost.
Strangely, her fall was both fast and slow. The air seemed to thicken, as if to bear her up. She could feel her white forelock crackling like electricity was running through it. Amazingly, she landed on her feet, but was horrified to see half a ton of books falling toward her.
Terrified, Tara stretched her arms out to protect herself. Books now blanketed the entire room, but miraculously stopped a few inches from Taraâs feet, forming a perfect circle around her.
Speechless, the only thing she could say was, âOops!â
Then she took a deep breath and added, âI may as well go pack my bags. Grandmaâs gonna kill me!â
A cough near the door caught Taraâs attention, and she turned around, her heart pounding. Attracted by the noise, Mangus was standing there, gaping at the catastrophe.
Tara gave him a hesitant smile.
âIâm . . . Iâm terribly sorry, Mangus. I climbed the ladder but I slipped and everything fell down.â
âI see,â answered Mangus calmly, who could hardly ignore the disastrous spectacle of books covering the floor. âAnd did the young lady find what she was looking for?â
Normally, Mangusâs archaic phrasing amused her, but the fat, balding young man now seemed more threatening than amusing.
âYes, Mangus. I even found more than I expected. Listen, I have to go see Betty. I forgot I have to tell her something. And Iâll come back to straighten everything up. I promise.â
Mangus squinted at the mantelpiece, where the mark of Taraâs sneakers could be clearly seen, at the book carnage, and finally at Tara, standing unhurt in the center of a perfect circle.
âIâm sorry
Isabella slammed the phone down, ending the conversation. Tara clung to the slippery marble, her ears ringing with what she had just overheard.
Her grandmother knew . She was a . . . spellbinder ! But what did that mean, being a spellbinder? And Fabrice was one too, apparently. Except that in his case it wasnât usual. The count was the guardian of a portal that gave off some sort of emanations. But a portal to where? And what was this mysterious high council?
Her head buzzing with questions, Tara didnât know what to do. And she suddenly felt that her grandmother was a stranger to her.
Then she stood bolt upright on her perch: Betty! Her best and most faithful friend, who had never breathed a word about anything Tara ever told her. She would talk to Betty. Tara wasnât a mutant after all; she was a spellbinder. And she did magic, not telekinesis.
Tara leaned toward the ladder, very cautiously stretched her leg out, and began to shift her weight from the mantelpiece to the ladder.
But she had forgotten one small detail.
The ladder was as close as possible to her, but was free to roll the whole length of the library in the other direction. And thatâs exactly what happened.
With a gulp of surprise, Tara felt her support slipping away. She jerked her leg back but instinctively hung onto the ladder. So she wound up with her tiptoes on the mantelpiece and her hands desperately clutching the ladder, with her body bridging the empty space in between.
She stayed suspended like that for a couple of tense moments, unable to make a move.
The problem was that the bookcase hadnât been designed to take the weight of a girl twisting every which way in an attempt to regain her balance. A sharp snapping sound froze Taraâs blood. She looked at the top of the bookcase and turned pale. With a dull creak, the metal fasteners that held the bookcase against the wall were popping out one after another.
Tara could feel sweat running down her back. She absolutely had to climb back onto the mantelpiece before a total catastrophe happened. Eyes wide, she watched as the last fasteners gave way. With an apocalyptic rumble, the bookcase slowly began to topple. Tara was yanked off the chimney, the books tumbled out, and all was lost.
Strangely, her fall was both fast and slow. The air seemed to thicken, as if to bear her up. She could feel her white forelock crackling like electricity was running through it. Amazingly, she landed on her feet, but was horrified to see half a ton of books falling toward her.
Terrified, Tara stretched her arms out to protect herself. Books now blanketed the entire room, but miraculously stopped a few inches from Taraâs feet, forming a perfect circle around her.
Speechless, the only thing she could say was, âOops!â
Then she took a deep breath and added, âI may as well go pack my bags. Grandmaâs gonna kill me!â
A cough near the door caught Taraâs attention, and she turned around, her heart pounding. Attracted by the noise, Mangus was standing there, gaping at the catastrophe.
Tara gave him a hesitant smile.
âIâm . . . Iâm terribly sorry, Mangus. I climbed the ladder but I slipped and everything fell down.â
âI see,â answered Mangus calmly, who could hardly ignore the disastrous spectacle of books covering the floor. âAnd did the young lady find what she was looking for?â
Normally, Mangusâs archaic phrasing amused her, but the fat, balding young man now seemed more threatening than amusing.
âYes, Mangus. I even found more than I expected. Listen, I have to go see Betty. I forgot I have to tell her something. And Iâll come back to straighten everything up. I promise.â
Mangus squinted at the mantelpiece, where the mark of Taraâs sneakers could be clearly seen, at the book carnage, and finally at Tara, standing unhurt in the center of a perfect circle.
âIâm sorry