July 30, 2025

Storytime Blog Hop Bookmarked by Magic

Bookmarked by Magic

by Juneta Key

The witch had violet hair, a raven tattoo that blinked when she signed books, and the audacity to set her signing table between Self-Help and Spellcraft.

Julian had only wandered into the bookstore to find a copy of The Existential Brooding of Owls, but the table, the glittering pen, and the woman holding court with a line of enchanted customers distracted him.

“Would you like your fortune with that?” she asked the woman ahead of him, who squealed and clutched her newly signed copy of Midnight Hexes & Herbal Regrets.

Julian did not get in lines. Not for book releases, not for coffee, not even for stardust pancakes at his cousin’s elven wedding. But he stayed where he was, because the witch had laughed—and it sounded like bells ringing at a funeral. Mournful. Beautiful.

When it was his turn, she looked up.

“Let me guess.” Her gaze slid over him like a warm wind through the Veil. “You’re here for the owls.”

He blinked. “How—”

“The Existential Brooding of Owls. Section 3B. Last copy’s hiding behind a grimoire on sentient fungi.” She tapped her temple. “My familiar listens to regrets.”

A small black cat on the table blinked at him with one golden eye. The other was a whirlpool of stars.

Julian swallowed. “I’m not here for regrets.”

She tilted her head. “Pity. That’s my specialty.”

She offered a book. Her book. The cover was embossed in purple ink that shimmered when touched. He brushed a finger over the title: Book of Binding Hearts: A Witch’s Guide to Love, Loss, and Lesser Hexes.

“You expect me to read this?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Only if you want something to happen.”

“To me?”

“To anyone.”

Julian hesitated. “I don’t do witchy things.”

“Neither did I,” she said, “until my ex cursed my houseplants and my left kneecap.”

He opened the book. A slip of paper fluttered out. It was blank on one side. The other read:

He’s late, but he’s here.
—Future You

Julian looked up, heart thudding. “Is this some sort of trick?”

“I prefer the term ‘invitation.’” She rested her chin on her hands, watching him like a cat sizing up a songbird. “Or prophecy. Depends on the paper stock.”

He nearly left. He should’ve left. But the bookstore felt suddenly vast and timeless, like a moment caught between heartbeats.

He sat down.

“I don’t know your name,” he said.

“I know yours,” she replied. “Julian, ghost-whisperer who refuses to acknowledge the family gift, drinks too much Earl Grey, and mourns a mother who isn’t dead but is disappointingly alive.”

The color drained from his face. “You’re not guessing.”

“Nope.”

He reached for the paper. “Who wrote this?”

“You did.” She tapped the blank side. Words appeared.

Stay. You’ll regret it if you don’t.
—Still You

“I don’t write prophecies,” he muttered.

“Not yet,” she said. “But everyone bookmarks their own story eventually.”

The cat purred. A tiny spark of lavender magic curled around Julian’s fingers.

“Have you ever met someone,” he said slowly, “and felt like the story changed the second they entered the scene?”

She smiled. “Yes. Once.”

Julian swallowed. “What happened?”

“He left before the last page.”

They sat in silence. A laugh echoed from the next aisle—someone had accidentally turned themselves into a small flock of pigeons. No one seemed alarmed.

Julian glanced at the slip again. More words appeared:

She’s the one who stays, if you ask her to.
—Maybe You

“What if I don’t know how to ask?”

She handed him a pen.

“You write it.”

He stared at the pen. “This isn’t normal.”

“Neither are soul-tied bookstores, cats with cosmic vision, or men who accidentally awaken latent magic by flirting with a witch at a book signing.”

“I wasn’t flirting.”

She arched a brow.

“…Okay, maybe a little.”

She took the pen and scribbled something in his copy of her book. He peeked over the top:

Chapter 13: Love Spells That Backfire Gloriously.