You already wrote that, Oliver. Don’t you have anything else to say?

The small boy gasped. How…? How? He swallowed, then wrote back.

This can’t be happening. This isn’t real. I’m dreaming.

Under the neat, even, round letters his handwriting looked worse, not helped by the fact that his hand had been shaking when he’d written it. He closed and opened the leather bound diary.

Magic is hard to believe, Oliver. I understand that. But I think you’ll find that you are very much awake.

Oliver nearly gasped again, but didn’t want to awake anyone. He looked around, making sure that all the others were still asleep before he wrote again, half afraid of the answer this time.

Then you’re magic? A magical book that can write back?

He expected an answer this time. Apparently he was already getting used to…to this whatever it was. He closed and opened the book, and when it opened again he found the answer he’d been expecting.

Yes I’m magic. But writing back isn’t all I can do.

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