"...wonders," Harry echoes skeptically. That is the sort of thing people say about them, books and poetry, but he's never experienced it. But he does like maps, and he finds himself running a hand curiously along the row of spines without quite realizing he's doing it.

"The old king did think England had a spirit would rise and fight for him." He pokes at a spine that feels oddly squishy. "It did not."

But wait. "--other books will do otherwise?"