The Rosemary Spell Read Online Free PDF Page B

remembrance part?”
    â€œOkay,” Adam agrees. “That’s good, since the sonnet was about memory too.”
    â€œSonnet?”
    â€œThe powerful rhyme poem Mr. Cates just read?” Adam looks at me like I’m slow.
    â€œHe didn’t say it was a sonnet.”
    â€œHe didn’t need to!” Adam returns. “It had three sets of four lines and then two rhymed lines at the end. That’s how sonnets work. Or at least Shakespeare’s sonnets. I think there’s another kind with a different structure.”
    â€œI guess I was right about you and the rules.” I smile to show I think it’s cool he knows this.
    Adam scoots closer to the diary. “Do you have any ideas?”
    I read the
Hamlet
line aloud and close my eyes, waiting for inspiration to strike.
    â€œA blank page is an invitation,” Mr. Cates intones.
    Invitation. Party. Memories of parties? Inspiration isn’t striking.
    â€œRosie.” Adam’s voice cracks. “Look at the page.”
    I follow his gaze to the blankness below the rosemary line, but it isn’t blank. Faint writing trails like tendrils down the page.
    Is the book finally writing back? It can’t be. My brain races, trying to make sense of what I see.
    Adam says in a low voice, “We didn’t see it before because the ink’s so light.”
    He’s right. It’s barely darker than the page itself.
    I tip the book to get a better look, and for once I’m grateful for the harsh fluorescent lights in the classroom.
    The letters slowly resolve into view. It’s as if my eyes are adjusting to the dark, recognizing shapes where before had been nothing but grainy blackness. “Is it even English?”
    â€œIt’s not the same writing as the herbs,” Adam says. “It’s more modern, like Constance’s.”
    I focus on one letter at a time. “This is a
W,
” I murmur, tracing the slanted cursive with my pinky nail.
    â€œThat’s an
i,
and so’s that.” Adam points.
    â€œ
Wilkie!
” I read triumphantly.
    â€œWhat’s a wilkie?” Adam frowns.
    â€œIt’s a name,” I reply as I move on to the next word. “You know, like ‘wee Willie Wilkie.’”
    â€œIt’s ‘wee Willie Winkie,’” he scoffs.
    â€œWhatever. Wilkie is a name. The next word is
says. Wilkie says
. . .”
    Adam picks up the thread. “
Wilkie says I should
 . . .”
    â€œ
I should write down . . .
” I continue.
    â€œ
Write down my thoughts . . .
” Adam stops.
    â€œ
If I want to be . . .
” I whisper.
    We finish together. “
A poet.
”
    â€œIt’s definitely Constance,” Adam says.
    â€œI feel bad now,” I confess. “We shouldn’t’ve written in it. I just . . . I just wanted it to be ours, and I didn’t think . . . I mean, I hoped, but I didn’t really believe . . . And now . . . It should be in a museum or a library. The diary of Constance Brooke. I can’t even get my head around how I’ll tell my mother that we—”
    â€œWe didn’t damage it,” Adam says firmly. “We just wrote our names. And one Shakespeare line. The diary part is fine. Plus, she can’t blame us for thinking it was blank.”
    He frowns again.
    The ink seems much darker now. I can’t see how we missed it before.
    â€œWe’re just getting used to it,” I suggest.
    But the possibility of the book writing back surfaces again . . .
    Mr. Cates appears behind us. “How’s it going?”
    â€œGreat!” I gush, slapping my arm across the page. “We’re writing about memory.”
    He nods as if to say, “Of course you are,” and pounces on the next pair of desks.
    â€œDo you think we should turn the book in?” Adam whispers. He looks the way he did when we were eight,