We seem to wound up with two (both somewhat battered) paperback copies of James Thurber’s slender The Thirteen Clocks (the second intended, IIRC, as a loaner so that we’d always have a copy on hand).
Once upon a time, in a gloomy castle on a lonely hill, where there were thirteen clocks that wouldn’t go, there lived a cold, aggressive Duke, and his niece, the Princess Saralinda. She was warm in every wind and weather, but he was always cold. His hands were as cold as his smile, and almost as cold as his heart. He wore gloves when he was asleep, and he wore gloves when he was awake, which made it difficult for him to pick up pins or coins or the kernels of nuts, or to tear the wings from nightingales.
I’m due for a reread of this one, but I remember well its fairy-tale whimsy, which was somehow like and unlike other bits of fairy tale whimsy I’d read. If we had only one copy, it wouldn’t be leaving our shelves at all.
But we have two. So I’ll send the extra to the first person who says they’d like a bit of fairy-tale whimsy for their shelves, too. (ETA: Taken!) (But you all should still look for this book.)