It was going to be a while. Or so she assumed. Rachel eyed the cauldron, trying to summon the math in her mind. At capacity it could maybe hold 145 gallons, and she was sure it had only been half-filled with water. The total height of the thing must be about 3 feet, which was 36 inches, and then the diameter was probably about 38 in total, judging by how difficult it was to crash through the door frame, if the frame was the average width off–damn. Now she was getting a headache. It had been too long since high school geometry, and she’d foregone that in college in favor of the simplest math course possible.

She’d leave the math aside for now. She didn’t even know the boiling point of wrought iron, and then magic being factored into the equation as an unknown…

“I’m back!” Sir Fishbits called out, giving her a scare. The cat entered the room and slinked over to the window before leaping onto the sill and snatching up his discarded wand. Then he left once more.

“What are you–” Rachel started, “hey! Come back!”

If this was going to be a running theme with the cat, she would rather take her chances on dealing with the giant fish.

It was another tense wait listening to the crackling fireplace and cautiously eyeing the knives on the table just in case they started floating again. What on earth was he doing down there?

“Dere, shee? Wight dere.” Sir Fishbits garbled his words around the stick in his mouth as he came back into the room, followed by a book floating shakily in the air. The thing looked very odd. Like several pieces of different other books crammed together with mismatched page sizes and an oddly textured cover. Sort of shiny and leathery, with no words clearly written on it.

Squinting, Rachel looked at the cat with an unspoken question hanging in the air. Then the book fell on her head, smacking a corner hard on her scalp. She yelped, falling back down in bed while the book tumbled into her lap and fell open to the first page.

Hello.

“What’s this?” She finally asked, staring at the funny title cluelessly.

Sir Fishbits leapt back onto the windowsill and carelessly spat his stick out, curling up into a ball with his head facing away. “A book!” He shouted over his shoulder.

“I know that,” she replied testily. Give it a day. Just one day, and she was sure she could walk around and perhaps kick the damned animal.

“Read. Sleeping now. Goodnight.” Sir Fishbits replied, not remotely interested in her anymore.

Scowling, Rachel looked back down at the book. She nearly jumped when she saw that instead of the earlier text scrawled on the page, there was an elaborate illustration of a hand waving in the air. Then, darker, larger letters in black ink began to bleed onto the page slowly. One at a time.

H. E. L. L. O.

“Uh,” Rachel spoke aloud, lowering her head to the book to whisper, “hi?”

Can you read?

Rachel frowned slightly, not sure whether this was an honest question or insult. She’d had enough of pissy creatures for a lifetime. “Yeah. I can read.”

Oh, wonderful. What else can you do?

“That’s a broad question,” she replied, “I can do plenty of things.”

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Elaborate.

“I can do math, sort of. Mostly. I get by. I can clean, sort of. I hate dealing with glass, though, I always leave streaks. Vacuuming isn’t really my thing either. I can cook. Swim—“

“—hardly,” Sir Fishbits retorted, letting out a loud yawn.

Rachel glared at the cat, biting her tongue and looking back down at the book, “pretty much anything a normal person does.”

What would you say is your greatest weakness?

“Is this a job interview?” Rachel answered with her own question, “I hate interviews. I don’t even want the job. I’m not a witch. Why isn’t anyone listening to me?!”

You smell like magic. You are a witch.

“You are a book. You don’t have a nose.”

The ink quickly faded from the page. Their whole conversation. Then Rachel almost at once felt profoundly alone. “Hello?” She asked the book, giving it a little shake, “book?”

After a solid minute, the pages fluttered, and a sentence formed on the page. Crawled, practically. Like it was reluctant to even form.

Rude. I don’t talk to rude people.

Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes, held it, and slowly let it out. Rachel tried to plaster a smile on her face, as difficult as it felt in that moment, “listen. Book. I’m sorry. This is all—a lot. A LOT. I don’t really know where I am, and honestly I’m worried I had a mental breakdown somehow, and I’m huddled naked in a corner of an office somewhere screaming gibberish words at a computer screen. If this is real, then I need time. I also need to be able to be frustrated, and angry. I don’t know you, so I’m sorry I upset you, but frankly I am upset. I think it’s fair to be a little rude right now.”

It was a good minute before more words began to form.

Are you— lonely?

The question hung in the air while she took time to process it.

“Yeah,” Rachel replied softly, “sort of. I’m scared, too. I don’t think you can begin to know what it feels like.”

I do. I can not walk. I can not make you hear me. When I am unread, I am alone. It is a terrible thing to give a thing a mind.

She hadn’t really thought of that. Rachel gave the open page a gentle tap with her hand, “It must be very hard.”

Not really. As long as I am not left in the dark, I am fine.

“Well,” Rachel began, hoping she didn’t regret this later, “if I have to keep being here, and I can’t go home, I promise I won’t leave you in the dark.” She’d always thought of her favorite books at home as her close friends in a way, but Rachel was all of a sudden very glad the collected steamy works of Trisha Baker didn’t have thoughts of their own. She could only imagine what they’d say to her.

I smell something cooking. Water and vegetables. You should add salt.

“I will,” Rachel nodded absent-mindedly, still imagining what her romance novels might think about. It couldn’t be anything wholesome.

There is a large clay pot of the stuff in the cellar downstairs. There’s also some pots of black peppercorn. We’ll want that too. Then we’ll need some good meat bones. You’ll find some good cuts in the back of the room…

He listed off instructions at a lightning pace, which was just fine with Rachel. She didn’t have to make a list, it was already in front of her. She skimmed through all of the steps, nodding and smiling. This sounded like it might actually be pretty good.

“So we’re making mutton soup?” She asked, to sum it all up.

Sir Fishbits’ ears perked up and he lifted his head, turning back to peer over his shoulder at her.

“You can’t walk down there right now. You’ll have to use magic.”

Rachel blanched. The thought of not getting anything to eat until she figured out how to do the impossible made her stomach twist and protest.

Sir Fishbits purred, narrowing his eyes, “it’s about time for your first lesson, I think.”

Take a deep breath.

The book advised her.

It’s like riding a bicycle. Gertrudis used to tell me those mechanisms were simple enough once you got used to them.

She’d ask about that random kernel of trivia later. At the moment, Rachel felt it was appropriate to finally have another proper panic attack.