Page 13 of Castle of the Cursed
All four streets face a central fountain that’s run dry, featuring an oxidized copper statue of someone holding a pitcher like they’re pouring water. It makes me think of the zodiac sign Aquarius. The bluish-green figure looks androgynous, with long hair, large eyes, and a hooded cloak.
An old lady sits on a bench in the statue’s shade, throwing seeds at pigeons. The rest of the plaza is deserted. I stroll along the smaller businesses to see what else is here—but I stop walking when I see a storefront with books behind the display glass.
My mood improves as I push open the front door of my favorite place and inhale the thick musk of aging paper.
At last, I breathe easier.
Growing up, the first thing I did whenever we landed somewhere new was visit the local bookshop. Sometimes I had to take a bus or two to get there, but once I arrived, it was always the same: a refuge for homesick bibliophiles.
I imagine libraries are even more special because you have to be part of a community to borrow books. Every time we settled somewhere new for longer than a few weeks, I would consider getting a library card. But just the thought of all those cards adding up in my wallet, an ever-growing collection of non-homes weighing me down over time, was too daunting. Instead, I told myself I’d get a membership the day my parents got us a home of our own.
That way I would know I belonged.
This bookstore is unlike any I’ve ever visited. The wood used in its crafting has a raw quality that seems prehistoric, like it was cut from trees that had been around since Earth’s beginnings. The shelves are so tall they nearly graze the ceiling, blocking much of the light, and as I touch the gnarled wood, I get the sense this store is nearly as old as the castle.
I wind through narrow stacks that feel breathlessly tight, and I’m relieved when I arrive at a clearing with a couple of armchairs and a table. Surveying the pathways around me, I skim the signs to see where each aisle leads: FICCIÓN, REFERENCIA, JUVENIL—
“¿Busca algo en particular?”
I still at the guy’s husky voice.
Turning around, I see bright amber eyes and a crooked smile. He looks to be about eighteen and wears jeans and a charcoal T-shirt, topped with a slim black blazer. I can only make out the first two words of a partially obscured phrase on his shirt: LA SOMBRA.
“It’s you!”
He switches to English upon registering my face, and his eyes flare even brighter. “This is so great! I’m Felipe.”
The familiarity in his voice makes me feel like I should know him. Or maybe it’s a cultural thing. He moves in like he’s going to touch me in greeting, and my stomach twists with discomfort.
I know it’s customary to kiss here, but I can’t help backing away.
Felipe freezes, and his face falls. “Eh, perdón. I’m sorry,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. His arms push back the sides of his blazer, and I read the full phrase on his shirt:
LA SOMBRA DEL VIENTO. It’s a famous book by a Spanish author, Carlos Ruíz Zafón. Mom loved that series.
I move deeper into the store, hoping to lose Felipe in the stacks, but I hear his faint footfalls following me. I quicken my pace, eager to run across another customer or bookseller, and I hit the back of the place. Casing my surroundings, I log a door, ladder, wall display—
I don’t have to turn around to know Felipe is behind me.
As I strategize an exit, my gaze snags on a sign over the display on the wall. It reads: LEYENDAS LOCALES. An array of books are lined up face out, their covers all bearing images of the same castle.
“You live there.”
His husky voice is low but loud. He’s too close.
“With la doctora,” he adds, now even closer. I’m not sure if he’s asking or telling me.
I spin around and take a large side step around Felipe, switching our positions. It’s a trick Dad taught me. Now Felipe is the one against the wall.
“It’s okay,” he says, dark hair falling over his eyes. “This is my family’s store. You’re here to see me.”
I frown in confusion.
“Spanish tutoring? Your aunt said you would be coming.”
Libroscuro. The name clicks into place from Beatríz’s note. Once I saw books through the window, I was sucked indoors so fast that I missed the sign.
“Let’s work in the office,” he says, moving toward the ladder. I look up at an opening and glimpse a bright attic with natural light flooding through.
