Spike stamped down the stairs to the ground floor of the library. “Twilight?” She wasn’t there. Clearly she was somewhere, though, because books were strewn about the place. Spike clenched his fists. Like there hadn’t been enough of Twilight’s mad research sessions lately. “Where are you?” he shouted. No answer. He didn’t need one. Since she wasn’t here or upstairs, she had to be in the basement. He shoved the door open and it banged against the wall. “Twilight!” “Uh—Spike?” This was followed by a gasp, and then by paper rustling furiously. Spike took in the scene as he went down: more books, big boring ones, piled atop each other on the table, a blanket, discarded scrolls, a blackboard covered in scribbles. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Wrapping your birthday present?” Twilight suggested. There were bags under her eyes. From behind her back she produced a rectangular package, floating in a dull pink aura. As soon as he felt its weight in his hands his shoulders slumped. He shouldn’t have hoped for anything else. “I knew it,” he said immediately it, and proved himself right once he’d opened the present, nearly scratching the book’s cover the in the process. Spike glared. “I told you I didn’t want another book unless it’s a comic or it at least has pictures in it.” “You said you like good stories,” said Twilight. “You’ll like the book. I promise. It’s a good—” Spike wrenched the book open so forcefully the spine cracked. He ignored Twilight’s wince and flicked through boring beige page after boring beige page, all filled with words and nothing but words. He thrust the open book towards her. “See? You know, a picture’s worth a thousand words, Twilight! What were you doing that’s so important you even forgot to wrap it anyway?” Twilight flushed. “Did you stay up all night looking at Haycartes?!” Spike demanded after a moment, pointing at the blanket. “I can’t believe you!” “It was just a little thing bothering me in one of his spells. I honestly didn’t mean to stay up.” She was lying. The blanket proved it. Spike folded his arms. “Well, since it’s obviously more important than my birthday,” he said, “why don’t you show me the problem? It must be super interesting since you didn’t give up on it even though we agreed you would.” When Twilight started shaking her head, Spike deliberately added, “It can be the birthday present I actually asked for.” Twilight drooped. “I’m sorry…” But her horn began to glow. Spike again noticed the dimness of her aura: a gray tint dulled its pink shimmer. Twilight looked a bit sick, actually. The musty smell of old books in an airless room suddenly filled his nose. Twilight disappeared. So did Spike’s anger. His breath caught like he really was in an airless room. “Twilight?” he shouted, flinging his book away. It thudded onto the table, the momentum sending it into a spin that didn’t stop. The black words spun into dark rings in the centre of the pale pages, two dark circles like eyes, like Twilight’s eyes, big eyes gawking up at Spike. Spike leaned over the table to stare down and back into her gaze. “Spike,” Twilight cried, her voice far-away and drawn out. “You’re in the book!” he answered. At least, he tried to answer, but he didn’t hear the words. His lips said nothing. He went to grab his throat, but his hands wouldn’t move. The stale bookish smell overwhelmed him: he couldn’t even breathe in. He swayed on his feet, and then fell forward into the spinning abyss of words. But a moment later he was as before, lying motionless, looking up at Twilight’s face—watching it slowly fold in on itself in dismay. “You’re in the book!” echoed his words, in Twilight’s voice. Other words fanned across a beige canvas behind her head, rapidly overwriting one another until they blotted each other out. Yet Spike read on. He had no choice, and it was a good story. Meanwhile, Twilight’s changing face told another story, one he wasn’t sure he understood. Suddenly, he breathed out. He was back in the basement, head throbbing. Twilight ran towards him. He returned her hug and apologies with just as much fervency. The book lay on the table, no longer worth all the fuss. A few weeks later, Spike added it to the general library catalogue and shelved it appropriately. After all, he’d read it already.