"When the gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers."

-Oscar Wilde

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Chapter 1: Anything

The rain whispered and hissed against the windowpane, droplets making slow progress across the glass. Tapping my pencil absently on the desk, I stared at the slate-grey sky, the sounds of the math lesson fading into the background in favour of the soft patter of raindrops on glass.

I blinked, and glanced down at the desk, where my math work had been pushed aside to make room for a sheet of paper on which my loopy, disorganised handwriting showed the bare, fragile beginnings of a story.

"Tucking my backpack back under the seat, I glanced out the window and caught a fleeting glimpse of the bright fluorescence of a city before the plane veered to the right..."

I frowned, continuing to tap my pencil on the desk. I couldn't think of what to write, and Mrs. Jenkins was wrapping up the lesson, so I made an effort to turn my attention-such as it was after a period spent staring out the window-to the front of the room and tried half-heartedly to concentrate.

"--finish them by Monday" Mrs. Jenkins concluded, referring to the worksheet she'd handed out at the start of the period; it sat neglected on the corner of my desk. She glanced at the clock. "You've got ten minutes, so get started. The more you finish, the less you'll have for homework." As she sat down at her desk I slipped the worksheet into my binder to get it out of the way.

As everyone else got to work I turned back to my story, wondering again what to write next. Then out of the corner of my eyes I saw the person in the seat to the right of me lean left, and felt him tap me on the shoulder.

My whole body tensed, and the pencil dropped from my hand, clattering to the desk. Heart pounding in my ears, I turned to face him.

Kenneth Jamison.

He had messy brown hair that fell over his face when he tilted his head, and a long, lithe frame that came in handy on the school soccer team. He wore a different jacket almost every day of the week, and he lived with his grandmother, who always showed up for his games.

Not that I was stalking him.

Feeling my face start to go red, I stammered, "Yeah?"

"Can I borrow a pencil?" he asked quietly, a sheepish smile curving his sensitive lips.

"Um..."

I opened and closed my mouth a few times, inwardly cursing my inability to speak with him staring at me like that. Those beautiful emerald eyes!

After a few seconds my friend Jessica, who sat in the seat ahead of me, sighed heavily, turned around, raised one expressive brow in my direction, and unceremoniously handed him a pencil. I watched as their hands touch briefly, envious of Jessica.

"Thanks," Kenneth said, startled, and with one last confused glance at me, returned to his work.

Eyes stinging, I muttered "thanks" to Jessica, and stared dully at the half-story in front of me, waiting for the period to end. Despite the fact that I wasn't religious, I thanked the heavens when the bell finally rang and everyone else crowded toward the door, laughing and talking loudly in the sudden freedom of Friday afternoon.

Stacking my books on top of one another, I knew that my face was still burning, and tears of embarrassment still threatened to spill over at any moment.

Jessica watched me for a moment, her weight balanced on one slender hip. "Just confess to him," she said simply.

I jumped. "What?"

"Come on, Rain," she groaned. "We're not in middle school anymore--you're almost seventeen. Just tell him you like him and get it over with."

I sighed and stood up, hugging my books to my chest. "Jess, you know it's not that simple."

"What do you mean?" she asked as we stepped into the hall.

I frowned at her. "Don't you remember my history of flat-out refusals and blistering rejections?"

She winced. "Sometimes I think whoever gave you a good vocabulary was nuts."

"But you can't tell me you've forgotten," I persisted.

"How could I? I've had to deal with the waterworks for every one." She began to count off on her fingers. "There was Josh in grade seven, Alex in grade eight, Liam in grade nine, Theo in grade ten--"

I groaned at the mention of Theo; the memory of what he'd said was too fresh in my mind.

"My entire life," I muttered, "I've always been too quiet, too smart, too much of a stranger, or just too late." I squeezed my books as though they could comfort me somehow. "I wish I had the courage to tell Kenneth I like him."

"Please, don't start now," Jessica begged. "It's Friday. Just think about what I said, okay? See you Monday!"

And without another word, she vanished into the crowded hallway.

I sighed, scuffing at the floor as I headed for the door, shifting the weight of my backpack to my other shoulder. Even though Jess was a wonderful friend, and was always there to bail me out whenever I got myself in trouble (usually crush-related), there was no way she could possibly understand what it was like to have been rejected as many times as I'd been. With a graceful build, silky hair and wide blue eyes, not to mention extreme amounts of confidence and a beautiful laugh, she was my polar opposite in the romance department. The guys in our class practically fell over themselves trying to get close to her, and she never had any trouble finding a date come Friday night.

Maybe she is right, and I should just confess to him, I thought, listening to the damp sidewalk squeak under the soles of my shoes.

But... what if he says no?

I felt my eyes begin to sting again, and forced myself to take a deep breath. I don't think I could take that, not again.

I'd been staring at my feet, but with that thought I forced myself to look up, and found myself looking at a sign that identified the store in chunky black letters: The Bookworm. It was a used bookstore; I'd been in there before, but I'd never bought anything.

Just as I was about to start walking again, I caught sight of one of the books in the window. The title read: Unlucky in Love?

The bell above the door rang as I pushed it open.

The air smelled of dust, ink and old paper, and the shelves were lined with mismatched books that covered everything from kangaroos to romantic problems-which was why I was in here, after all.

"Excuse me," I said to the old lady behind the counter, "can I see that book in the window?"

She blinked nearsightedly at me, then got up and moved to the display. "This one?"

"Yes."

She handed it to me and I flipped to a page near the middle, my pulse quickening as the pages settled.

Glancing at the first few words I quickly slammed the book shut, my face burning. The book was obviously meant for adults, and was only embarrassing to someone like me.

I handed it back to the lady, who placed it back on display, and cast my eyes across the rest of the store. Odds were that the rest of the books in here would be no more helpful than the first one, but it didn't hurt to look, right?

I wandered through the aisles, glancing at titles, now and the pulling one off the shelf to look at it, always putting it back after a few moments. The deathly silence was uncomfortable, and I could feel the old lady's eyes on the back of my neck.

The store wasn't huge, and in a few moments I'd reached the back bookshelf, the only one that reached all the way to the ceiling. I stared up at the top shelves, my gaze passing over brightly-coloured children's books, white-and-blue self-help manuals, and sensationalistic fantasy titles.

Finally my eyes came to rest on a book with a plain spine, bound in black leather and tucked away at the corner of the shelf. I frowned. Usually books had at least the author's name on the spine, if not the entire title. How did this book expect to draw attention if it was plainer than your average hearse?

I glanced around and grabbed a nearby stool, dragging it over until it stood under the shelf on which the black book sat. Standing on my toes, I could barely reach the top--

"Ow!" I hissed, pulling my hand back. There'd been some sort of shock as I touched the spine of the book. "Probably an electrical short," I muttered to myself, rubbing my tingling hand. Scowling at the book, I gingerly reached up and tapped the spine.

Nothing. No shock this time.

Still frowning, I pulled the book down off the shelf and sat down on the stool, turning it over in my hands. The leather had stiffened with age, and was rough to the touch. There was nothing to identify it--no writing, no symbols, no markings or images at all. The only thing out of the ordinary was the way the cover had been nicked and torn at the edges and smudged with dirt.

Finally I opened it to the first page; the stiff paper was yellow with age, and crackled beneath my fingers. There was no title, author or publisher. Just five words that looked like they'd been handwritten onto the page:

‘Do you have a wish?'

My pulse quickened immediately, despite the fact that I knew the words were probably only the beginning of a strangely written, avant-garde story. As my eyes traced the words an image of Kenneth leapt to my mind, and I whispered, "Yes."

Turning the page, my gaze leapt hungrily over the next words. ‘Are you willing to do anything to have it granted?'

My heart leapt into my throat. Closing my eyes, I repeated to myself, "Anything...?"

"I wish I had the courage to tell Kenneth I like him."

Taking a deep breath, I breathed, "Yes."

As I went to turn the page a strange, static thrill raced up my fingers. The paper moved with a crinkling whisper, and I saw that there were three words written on the next page, in the same scrawling, spidery script:

‘Welcome to Chrysanthia.'

I stared at the page for a moment. "What?" I asked disappointedly, getting to my feet and frowning at the book. "What is that supposed to--"

There was a sudden flash of light, and fuzziness crowded the corners of my vision, blurring the shelves into a canvas array of colours and shapes. The book fell from my hands as I staggered forward, suddenly dizzy. Throwing a hand out for support, my fingers raked the bookshelf, bringing volumes tumbling from the shelves. Suddenly, my legs gave out and I felt myself crumple to the ground as the bookshop dissolved into darkness.

I was dimly aware of the sound of approaching footsteps, and heard the whisper of cloth as someone knelt down beside me.

"Wisher?" asked a soft male voice. I felt a hand brush lightly against my face. "Are you awake?"

"Yeah," I croaked, and struggled to sit up as bright sunlight flooded my vision. "But who's Wisher? What do you--?"

I put my hand on the ground, and my eyes flew open, because what I felt under my fingers was not the coarse, rough carpet of the bookstore, but the soft blades of new grass. Alarmed by my sudden change of setting, I saw that there were trees all around me; enormous, smooth-barked trunks stretched towards the sky, and in places the emerald canopy opened up, allowing shafts of sunlight to reach through and pattern the forest floor in green, brown and gold.

Casting frantically around for some sign of shelves of books, or bright fluorescent lighting, I found none, nor any suggestion of civilisation. My pulse quickening, the first thought that passed through my head was:

Where am I?

But aloud, the only thing I could manage was, "I don't think I paid for that book."