Son of a Pitch: The Bookshop

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Title: The BookshopCategory and Genre: YA Fantasy
Word Count: 70,000
Query:For Alex, sheltering from the London rain inside an infinite bookshop is one thing. Being
locked inside and forced to serve inter-dimensional customers until the Bookshop decides
she's a worthy proprietor? Well, that's just one step too far. Becoming the proprietor of a
Bookshop full of unlimited knowledge and doors to new universes might well give a certain
level of indomitability to the right person -- but Alex knows that's definitely not her. She’s
determined to get home, universe-hopping be damned.
Meanwhile, Hunter, the mysterious supplier of books and sundry, is desperate to take the
power of the Bookshop for himself. He will stop at nothing -- taking the last teabag, finishing
the milk, or threatening death and disaster -- to get what he wants. When he gets caught up in
an inter-dimensional plot gone murder-levels of sour, and both Alex’s life and the very
existence of the Bookshop are in danger of going up in flames.
Then a stranger from another world stumbles into the Bookshop, close to death and raving
madly, and a new door is unlocked. Now Alex must choose between escape -- turning the
infinite power of the Bookshop over to a madman and his enemies -- or never seeing home
again.

First 250 Words:One last story, I suppose. I’m sorry in advance if it isn’t exactly the one you want to 
hear. 
But you must understand: back then, I didn’t realise the boy was important.
Two croissants have appeared in the cupboard overnight.Literally appeared.I’m trying not to think about it too much.The window seat not being the most ideal place to sleep, overnight I have become 
Alex, the Human Cramp. Not the greatest way to wake up. So I stretch, nice and slow. 
Tie my hair up in a messy bun. Cup of tea. Jam, cream, croissant.I sip from my mug, trying not to spill too much as I step around a smattering of 
discarded novels and over to the pile of unlabelled records on the other side of the room.
 Butter-yellow sunlight streams into the Cottage, snuggling up to the darkest corners, 
and for just a moment the whole place feels almost... normal. I ignore that several records
 appear to be carved out of thinly sliced stone – and that the dull red glow of the one 
in the corner is slightly more ominous than it was yesterday – and choose one at random.The needle locks into place.A few seconds of silence, then soft pops and clicks as the familiar voice of Freddie Mercury
 rings out.I curl up on the window seat once more, knees tucked to my chin, and watch the world 
outside slowly pass me by. Men in suits, heading off to work. Cyclists narrowly missing both 
people and their dogs as they wind their way down cobblestone paths under the swooping 
shadows of –Ignore the dragons, for the love of God, ignore the dragons