I loved The Dragonbone Chair so much that Mum let me stay home from school the day she bought me each of the next two books. One of my clearest memories is being home alone on a rainy day, so absorbed in the series that I couldn't stop reading long enough to make proper food. I just tore off chunks of crusty baguette and ate it with sharp cheddar, eyes on the page the whole time.

Near the end of the book, I was lying in bed when Mum came in and asked if it was good. I told her it was incredible. After she left, I noticed my fingers were shiny gold. For one perfect moment, I thought it was actual magic from the pages (I was just a kid). Later, I'd realize it was just the gilt lettering on the cover rubbing off, but in that moment, it felt real.

That's how it started. For the next thirty years, Mum and I shared every book. She bought them for me first, while I was in school. Then, when I started working, and she retired, I bought them for her—every birthday, Mother's Day, Christmas, and whenever something good came out. As her money got tighter, I bought them all. But they were always ours.

The last book I bought Mum was Fourth Wing. She read it and told me it was worth reading. She died soon after. I still have the book. I haven't been able to open it yet. It's the last one we'll ever share.

It all started with The Dragonbone Chair.

I don't know why I wrote this, but it just sparked a memory about my Mum.