Magic was real.  Grown-ups and big kids said there was no such thing, but Winna knew they were wrong.  They just said that because they had given up.  “You can’t give up,” she muttered to herself.  She picked up her book from the patchwork quilt she had tucked around her legs so she could sit alone on the cool, flower-smelling porch.

She left her glasses off, so she had to put the book way up close to her face, which was supposed to be bad for you.  But maybe some of the story would rub off on her.  It was called The Thyme Garden, by her favorite author right now, Edward Eager.  He wrote about magic happening to regular, ordinary kids, just like her.  Or almost just like her; they were white.  They always managed to find an enchanted something: a well, or a book, or a coin.  Winna was tall for her age (ten), and she was constantly being told to stand up straight and act like she was proud of her height.  She tried to, but it was hard when she was always looking on the ground for a magic object.  A ring, maybe, or a scroll of papyrus inscribed with strange, runic symbols.
–from Speculation