Caucasian woman, early 50s, wearing a crisp white shirt, collar up, with flowing, black linen pants and black sandals. Her hair is silver and black, her long bangs draped over one eye.

Memoir Of Friendship, Blanche Howard (Viking Canada)

Page 23:

Dear Blanche:

Thank you for including me among your luncheon guests last Thursday. It was great fun putting faces to the names of people I’ve heard you mention so often. I was especially pleased to meet Carol Shields. She is so warm and very natural. She told me she had had two novels published and I look forward to reading them.

In high school, she wore one of three dresses each day. In the library, she sat across from another quiet, poor girl who wore one of two dresses. The girl had thick red hair and pale green eyes. She glowed despite the absence of lunch and possibly breakfast. They sat knee-to-knee finishing their homework, shaving their pencils with pocketknives, smiling toothy grins, their commitment to lifelong friendship sealed in entwined ankles.

Asian female, 14-16, tall and thin, wearing a pink t-shirt, jean skirt with black leggings, black mesh shoes and a silver anklet. A long, red ribbon is tied through her hair.

The Amulet of Samarkand: The Bartimaeus Trilogy Book 1, Jonathan Stroud (Miramax Books/Hyperbion)

Page 77:

A thousand fishhooks seemed to embed themselves into me. I was pulled in several directions at once. Resisting too long risked tearing my essence, but I had no interest in delay. I wished to hand over the Amulet and be done.

The platform is three rows back. A car has stalled somewhere down the line. We’re all rethinking our wardrobe. The girl itches the back of her knee, tugging at the leggings, the material snapping back too close to her skin. I pull at the back of my collar, adjust the strap of my bag, envy the man next to me, his linen shirt loose against his chest. The girl runs the back of her hand against her forehead. Mirroring the need, I inadvertently transfer ink and a rushed scribble onto my sweaty cheek.

Caucasian woman, mid 20s, with black hair pinned up, black framed glasses, wearing a long, jean skirt, jean jacket and flip flops. She stops periodically to adjust the volume on her iPod. Or is she rewinding?

War and Peace, Leo Tolstoy (Harper Perennial)

Page 301:

The little princess, like an old war-horse hearing the sound of the bugle, quite unconsciously, forgetting what an inappropriate time it was, readied herself for her customary gallop of coquetry, without any ulterior motive or struggle, but with a naive, thoughtless gaiety.

She checks for her stop and packs the book into her bag, adjusting it on her shoulder as she snakes through the crowd toward the door. She looks up at an ad, tries to confine a giggle, lowering her head, shaking it as she lets out a soft giggle. It’s my stop, too. I stand behind her on the escalator. She pulls out her iPod, once more, and hums a melody that’s familiar. As I step into the sunshine it hits me and I sing:

I believe when I fall in love with you
it will be forever
I believe when I fall in love this time
it will be forever

(I Believe, Stevie Wonder)

Caucasian woman, early 40s, with brown bob with blonde streaks growing out, wearing a pink and grey floral silk blazer, a silver pendant pointing south like an arrowhead.

Isobel’s Wedding, Sheila O’Flanagan (McArthur & Co.)

Page 121:

I left work early and drove to his house. His car wasn’t there. I stood at the front door and opened the letterbox while I clutched the keys in my hand. It seemed such a final thing to do. I debated with myself for a moment, then unlocked the door.

Capricorn (Dec. 22—Jan. 20)

You have been through something challenging, but it has been good for you. Progress will now come where there was once just frustration.

She stared at the computer screen, head spinning, mouth dry. She popped a Gravol and waited for the night before to stop its assault, one blur after another, and the ache of remembering her broken promise, that no more would she sleep with him.

Caucasian woman, mid 30s, with long blonde hair, wearing a blue tunic and brown linen pants, flip flops flapping quietly as she takes the stage.

The Outlander, Gil Adamson (House of Anansi Press)

Page One:

It was night, and dogs came through the trees, unleashed and howling. They burst from the cover of the woods and their shadows swam across a moonlit field. For a moment, it was as if her scent had torn like a cobweb and blown on the wind, shreds of it here and there, useless. The dogs faltered and broke apart, yearning. Walking now, stiff-legged, they ploughed the grass with their heavy snouts.

There’s a distinct smell of bacon. The floorboards swelter of deck wood. A young man sweeps the floors and then, remarkably, the tables, like we’re not looking. The music is piped in xylophone jazz. The pillars are mirrored. The light is gemmed, crisp, noon high sunshine filtered through stained glass. Above, a trapeze swing is tied off clumsy like an absent-minded ponytail. A stand alone fan oscillates near an open door, a toddler standing in the hazy sun, his bike helmet resting too far off his crown to be safe, a random adult hand pulling at his shoulder, a Come here this instant. She reads, a gentle breeze keeping the space easy and pleasant. The young man loosens his grip, pushing the broom into the floorboards, swish-swish-swishing his way through the set.