He cried out and shielded his head against the fluttering mass. They rushed past him, their dark-bright eyes contrasting against their racous plumage. Bookmarks fell out of their flock as they flew out the door.

“What did you do?” he shouted.

I shook my head and leaned against the wall, my strength gone. “I’m sorry.”

“All those first editions, the priceless folios—” He crossed to an empty shelf and slid a finger over it, as if to confirm reality. “How could you transform every single book?”

Staring at my hands, which quivered from the abrupt loss of energy, I winced. “I don’t know what happened. I was reading Wallace Stevens’ ‘Thirteen Ways of Looking—”

“I know the poem,” he snapped. “I told you not to read when you’re lively.”

Slumping to the floor, I rested my face on my knees. “I know. But you won’t let me leave the house in case anyone sees me—I was bored!” I glared at him. “Nobody should have to live like this!”

He flinched. “I don’t do it for my own amusement, you know.”

We looked at each other, and I sighed. “Alright. Where’s the butterfly net?”

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