When does magic become commonplace? Lizzie contemplated the question. Was there a tipping point? After a certain amount of exposure, was it simply no longer the fascinating stuff of wishes and dreams?

The freakishly cold winter reminded Lizzie of a similarly cold winter two years ago, when she received what she thought was a wondrous gift. A magical book containing ever-changing, handwritten text—her first peek at what she believed to be magic. Each time Lizzie opened the book, a new entry appeared on the first page. Sometimes in red ink, sometimes black, occasionally in unusual shades of violet or green. The writing ranged from loopy, feminine cursive, to printed block letters.

Each entry was different, of that Lizzie was certain. Her logs recorded the date she opened the book, the color of the ink, and descriptions of the writing. She spread the records out on the table in front of her. Looking at them, she assured herself that, indeed, the entries were never the same. Beautiful script—and that was one constant, the writing varied but it was always beautiful—colorful messages, magically changing. How could Lizzie not be in awe? The words turned on themselves, swam and flipped on the page. So Lizzie concentrated harder and looked more closely at the page. But, two years later, the words still swam. She was no closer to reading its contents than when it had arrived.

Lizzie—never one to give up on the first, tenth, or even fiftieth try—experimented with a variety of techniques to still the moving words. During various attempts, a mirror, a feather, a candle, steam, ice cubes, and spit were employed. The last involved a late night, a few stout homemade margaritas, and an especially high level of frustration. So to say that the wondrous magical-ness of the unreadable book had become somewhat less wondrous over the intervening two years, was not incorrect.

After an especially disappointing late night of book gazing—she could hardly call it reading—Lizzie decided she needed reinforcements. For some unknown reason, she felt a strong push this week to solve the old mystery. Who did a thirty-six year old, relatively sane—she thought—woman call, when she needed to consult on the interpretation of her magical book? Not anyone who would immediately recommend institutionalizing her. That only left her best friend of twenty years.

If she couldn’t rely on twenty years of sane, shared history to prevent an immediate call to emergency services, then she decided the book itself would provide evidence of her story. So after a good night’s sleep, she called Kenna McIntire, her best friend. Then she packed up the book and headed to Kenna’s house. The result was one newly invigorated woman, a magical book, a long-time friend, and some excellent coffee, all converging early on a Saturday morning.

***