When I realized it was time to write this column, I panicked a fair bit. Ten books I’d read in 2020? I was convinced I’d barely read one book. Surely I had spent the last year staring up at my bedroom ceiling, fighting off attacks of the nerves like Mrs. Bennet?

Apparently not, because once I started writing down titles, they poured out of me like a flood. The trouble was, I didn’t trust my perception of time. The fabulous romp with the duke and the Demerara heiress—hadn’t I read that years ago? The delicious drama between the alpha Changeling and the healing Arrow—wasn’t I significantly younger when I cracked that one open? A quick Google search proved the answer was no on both counts. Each story was published in 2020, even if I feel centuries removed from the flashes of joy they brought me.

This year has been so disorientating—a lightning-fast treadmill to nowhere, a looping roller coaster whose drops I think I’ve learned until I find myself screaming again. So I’ve been treating books like hidden caves on a treacherous journey: safe havens to hide in for a while and leave behind with bitter regret. But the great thing about books is, you can return to their worlds whenever you want to (or, in the case of this year, whenever you desperately need to).

Maybe that’s why my top ten books of 2020 are kind, dreamy, triumphant stories that I’ll reread for years to come.