Denise never had taken to reading, much to her father's chargrin. His claims that books were magic that could take you anywhere did nit impressed her, and she only read fiction when she could not avoid it.
When she inherited her father's estate, she did not know what to do with the books, but the smell of paper and dust awoke nostalgia, accompanied by curiosity. She unlocked the one bookcase with doors and ran a finger tentatively over the spines, cracked leather with gold lettering on most. She pulled out a small volume, opened it in a patch of sunlight, and started reading.
When she suddenly stood in ankle-deep snow, wind cutting through her summer shirt, she realised the "magic" part had not been a figure of speech.