Started reading Patricia McKillip's Alphabet of Thorn, which I found myself hesitating over last night. As I expected, briars began to grow out of the book, surrounding me in an impenetrable wall as I sat on my seat. The other commuters watched in amazement as the branches leafed out and I disappeared. "My name is Bourne," she heard him say,"of Seale. If I come to the library, will they let me see you?"
"Yes," she said to him. And then a word spoke out of the book, a deep, sudden sound she recognized, swift as an adder biting into her heart and clinging. She looked at the young man, Bourne, dazed by the unexpected wealth: his gold eyes, his name, the book coming to life in her hands. "Yes," she said again, holding those eyes while she slipped the book into a deep pocket in her tunic, beneath her cloak."Come to me."