I froze, not daring to breathe. My hand hovered. The weight of the book felt heavy in my empty grasp. I inched my hand away from the sparks. The book quivered, dropped. I jerked my hand up. The book flipped over, rose slowly back out of the flames. A wasp the size of my thumb buzzed passed my ear. It crawled up my cramping arm.
I tried to pull the book toward me again. Turning my palm up, I pulled my hand away from the combustion. The book wobbled and slowly moved toward me.
My arm shook. The book moved like cold molasses. I flexed my thumb to alleviate the cramping. The wasp stung me. My hand jerked. The book dropped. I managed to hold still, lifting again slowly. The book stabilized. Minutes seemed to pass. The book was almost beyond the fireplace.
Sweat rolled down my forehead into my stinging eyes. The cramping become too much. Reflexes took control. My fingers sprang open. The book fell. It landed on the hearth, just beyond the flames' reach.
Crawling forward on my elbows, I clenched the smoking book in my hand. My nose filled with the smell of ash, smoke, and burnt hair. My heart clanked inside my tin chest. I peeled back the leather cover.
Charcoal pages clung to the binding, smoking, burnt to the stitching. I made out a few letters, a shade darker than the charred paper on which they were written. Scanning, I found four words.