“ For you,” said Mr. Smith. It was a book, large, leather-bound, gilt pages – the whole shebang.“ W-what?” I stammered.“ No – I mean, this looks really valuable, and I—”
“ It’ s not a gift,” Mr. Smith said.“ It’ s got your name on it. I just delivered it.”
I looked down, and sure enough, there was my name in all its glory, stamped on the front of the book in gold leaf: Ekaterina Sara-Maria Alexander. My stomach tightened and flipped over. I felt my palms begin to prickle with sweat.“ How do you know my name?” I demanded, hating the shakiness in my voice.
“ The book is meant for you,” Mr. Smith said.“ And you have the key, so I knew you were meant for the book.” He gestured at the front pocket of my backpack, half unzipped; the strange key the TSA agent pulled out of my pocket glinted from the inside.
“ This isn’ t mine,” I said, bending over to pull it out, turning it in my fingers.
“ It was in your pocket, wasn’ t it?” Mr. Smith asked with a smile.“ Well – yes,” I said, disconcerted.“ How did you know—” Mr. Smith just smiled and waved a gentle hand to silence me.
“ It wasn’ t a mistake, Kate.”“ But – what is this?” I asked, flapping my hands at the heavy book.“ What’ s in it?”
“ That’ s the book of you, of your life,” Mr. Smith said earnestly.“ Your past, your present,” he raised an eyebrow,“ your future. Everything you’ ll ever do, every word you’ ll ever say, every person you’ ll ever love. It’ s all recorded in here. All set down, the way it happened. Or will happen.” Another genuine smile.“ You could know it all.”
“ That’ s insane,” I said.“ You’ re insane.” But my voice caught a little. A history book of my life …“ You’ re crazy.”
“ Oh, I might be, but the book is real,” he replied.“ It’ s very real.”“ I don’ t believe you,” I retorted.“ You should.” His eyes crinkled with his smile. I ran a finger over the gilded edges of the book’ s pages. I imagined I could feel them whispering secrets into my skin. The leather of the book’ s cover was smooth and rich, intricately tooled with flowers and patterns at the corners.
“ Okay,” I said.“ Well, I’ ll just open it, and we’ ll see.” I lifted the front cover – or tried to. A small golden lock was holding the book shut. I frowned; I hadn’ t seen that before. It looked like the strange key would fit it perfectly.
“ Once you open it, you can’ t go back,” warned Mr. Smith.“ It’ s not a decision to be taken lightly.”
17