vr_trakowski | This is weird.

A couple of days ago, I was looking for a book I’ve had for decades, whose title I’d been trying to remember, off and on, for a while. I knew it had “princess” in the title, but I couldn’t recall the rest of it.

Then I glanced over at one of my shelves while I was doing something else, and remembered the title at exactly the moment I spotted the book. The Piebald Princess, by Joan Balfour Payne (it’s delightful, and delightfully illustrated. A lifetime favorite). There it was, and I smiled, but declined to grab it just then because it was out of reach (my bookroom is a disaster). I recognized the spine, the old blue-gray library binding of the hardcover, the print of the title.

Tonight I went back to get it and read it.

It’s not there.

I haven’t touched it since I moved all my books into that room. And while I’m not beyond saying my apartment is sporadically haunted--occasionally something invisible jumps onto the bed with me when my tangible cats are visibly elsewhere--this is different.

All I can say is, it had better turn up soon. I will take a very dim view of my books being hidden.