The charming little book had sat, waiting patiently on the shelf with my own, marginally less dusty, treasure trove of Austen novels until I could no longer resist the allure of that miniature door and those tea-stained, cinnamon-scented pages. Clearly I’d jinxed myself.

Glancing somewhat nervously toward the kitchen timer digitally counting down the seconds ... 9:56 ... 55 ... 54 ... 53 ... I shifted my gaze back to the seemingly innocuous book that was quickly becoming quite the little nemesis. With cupcakes in the oven (my signature contribution to next door’s weekly karaoke shindig), I had time to kill ... and no legitimate excuse not to take another look.

One wide-eyed glance was all it took—now I was officially freaked. The page looked exactly the same as it had fifteen seconds ago but distinctly, disturbingly different from the way it had the day I wrote it. And therein lay the rub—not to mention the weirdness. Because how could it be different?

Goose bumps cropped up on my arms as I tried to focus on the scattering of words remaining. As I read them in order, left to right and down the page, my heartbeat kicked up in my chest, deep, ominous thuds. There were twelve words left.

Miss Nicola James will

be

sensible

and indulge in a little romance.

It was either an extraordinary coincidence ... or not. And the “not” was what scared me.

I had to admit, I hadn’t taken particular notice of my choice of words when I’d penned the one and only entry almost a week ago, but now that they were gone, I wanted them back. It was the damn principle of the thing! Well, that and the creepiness.