Gemotions

The musty smell of the antique bookshop choked Amelia. She clutched her daughter, Clara, closer, the thin cotton of her sundress a flimsy barrier. Clara, barely eight, was nose-deep in a dusty volume, her eyes gleaming with a zeal Amelia found unsettling. Hours they'd been here. Amelia, a casual reader of historical fiction, had found comfort in the stories. Clara, however, was devouring everything – the paper, the binding, the *idea* of the past, it seemed. Amelia’s hands trembled, she thought of the stories, the wars, the plagues, the price of knowledge. She tried to persuade her to go, to play outside. Clara just shushed her, a little smile playing on her lips, and went back to reading.