“She doesn’t have one,” I said dryly. “Drove me crazy, too.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve read Rebecca?”
“Son of a literature professor. You do the math. So to speak.”
“Still… kind of a chick book, isn’t it?”
She was laughing at me, the little monster. And I was blushing. “The classics,” I said loftily, “are for everyone. Speaking of which, I saw a copy of The Hobbit on your shelf. I’ll go read that and let you concentrate on your paper.”
I was halfway to the bookcase when she said, “Are hobbits real?”
I turned around and raised an eyebrow of my own.
“Well, if vampires can be real,” she stammered—I hated how cute she was when she was embarrassed—“why not hobbits, and elves, and werewolves and fairies and mermaids and Martians—”
“That’s not an uncommon question among new Lumii,” I
