like a sharp bright piece broken from a star

There were a multitude of things that Hild enjoyed about working at Graymark Books. The owner, of course, was the best boss that Hild could possibly have. But the store itself was still a marvel to her, crammed full of books, which were so precious in her time and place, so rare, none of them so neatly formed as these, sturdy and precise. She had quickly learned how it was that a book smelled, and just as quickly learned to love it. The customers were usually polite, relaxed, unperturbed by Hild's still lingering accent or the way she had to pause at times before answering a question. She learned in leaps and bounds from these interactions and, on those afternoons when the store was empty, peaceably silent and still, all activity shut outside the broad front window, she read.

It was not very fast reading. English was more of a mongrel language on paper than on the tongue, Hild felt. The alphabet was familiar to her, thankfully, but whenever she sounded out words, their meanings eluded her. Luke would read things for her at times, when he was also in the shop on slow days, but sometimes that hindered more than helped. (How "receipt" could be spelled with a p was beyond her.)

One such slow afternoon had Hild behind the counter, bent over a more simply written book called The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. Her finger dragged slowly along the lines and her lips mouthed the words, but the moment she heard the front door open, she promptly greeted the new guest with a well practiced "Hello. Can I help you find something?"