Rose set The Call of the Nightfall King atop The Farmer’s Grimoire on her small stack of books, and ran her fingers over their spines, their textured leather covers firm to the touch, promising wonder within. She picked up Dombey and Son and flipped past the frontispiece of a fat man with a hook for a hand, who was directing a young boy’s studies. For perhaps the hundredth time, she read the first sentence:
