My mother used to have a wooden chest filled to the brim with books. As a child, I didn't know what kind of chest it was, what type of wood was used to make it, or where it came from. I just new that the lid took all my strength to lift, the top tray kind of tricky for my little arms to move out of the way, and that the smell was a mixture of sweet wood and old books.
Throughout the years, I would retreat into this chest, eager to discover a little secret story that I could call my favorite. Some books were easy to shove past, some only served as a good flip-through to feel the wisp of a breeze and inhale the scent of pages fluttering before me, but others, like Flambards, pricked at my curiosity and latched on to me forever.
I think I was in high school when I discovered this book. The main character's name was Christina, and she was a brunette, and it's so rare to come across heroines who share your name and hair color, so naturally, I had to read it.
