A Rivalry of Hearts

Chapter 1

I’ve always maintained that a woman in possession of a vast imagination would want for nothing in life. She’d be superior to those with such fleeting virtues as wit, beauty, or accomplishment. The richest woman in the world, if only in her mind.

Today I’d settle for being merely punctual.

Instead, I’m an hour late, rushing through the streets of Floating Hope, my mood not nearly as optimistic as the town’s name.

To think I started my morning in high spirits. That, of course, was before I missed my train stop, disembarked at the next one, caught the first train back by the skin of my teeth, got lost in town, and then finally—my most grievous of errors—asked a will-o-the-wisp for directions.

I was warned about wisps in my visitor’s brochure, which included a handy list of dangers a human should avoid while visiting the isle of Faerwyvae. It detailed everything from fae bargains to death-by-kelpie. I found the warnings oddly amusing and promptly restyled them in my notebook under the title Fourteen Ways to Die in Faerwyvae: An Illustrated Guide. If only my sketch of the wisp had been even remotely accurate, then maybe I’d have recognized the blue flamelike creature for what it was.

I have three things to say in my defense.

One: I assumed the creature was a sprite or a sylph. This is the Wind Court, after all, and my studies on faekind insist wisps are most frequently found in the courts of Fire or Lunar.

Two: even though following a wisp through swamplands is Way to Die Number Seven due to the risk of death by drowning, the cobblestone streets and charming storefronts that comprise the town of Floating Hope promised safety from said watery demise.

And three: well, the wisp was just so kind to offer a personal escort to my destination.

After which he led me astray, bringing me all the way back to the train station before zipping off with a cackle and taking the slip of paper bearing the address to Flight of Fancy Bookshop with him.

I stand by my opinion that the brochure should have been more specific about the mundane dangers wisps pose, and not just the deadly ones.

Impatience tightens my chest as I double back down streets I’ve already traversed, the scowl on my face a stark contrast to the wide-eyed wonder I held when I first arrived in Floating Hope. Back then, I still had an hour to spare and took my time to marvel at the storefronts, the pastel-colored buildings with their gabled roofs and intricate millwork, the beautiful people—human and fae alike—in their smart suits or fashionable day dresses. Now I only have eyes for street signs. I may not have the address of my destination memorized, but I do recall it was on Wuthering Avenue. If I can find that, I can find the bookshop. And if I can find the bookshop, then perhaps there’s still a chance I haven’t completely blundered the most important opportunity of my life.

The weight of my carpet bag soon threatens to dislocate my arm from its socket, so I give up on trying to carry it in a ladylike fashion and heft it against my chest. As I weave through the pedestrians crowding the sidewalks and dart past horse-drawn carriages in heeled shoes not made for walking, my stride shifts into an undignified wobble. Why I chose fashion over comfort on a day like this is beyond me. Had I even an ounce of good sense I’d have chosen my low-heeled boots, an airy blouse and walking skirt, and a hat.

Instead, I’m a panting, sweating mess, the hem of my too-long day dress is filthy, and my already unruly auburn hair has been subjected to the violent whims of the breeze. They don’t call this the Wind Court for nothing, and by now half my tresses have fallen loose from their updo. A particularly stubborn lock has even wound itself around one arm of my spectacles. I’d stop to fix my hair, but I really can’t afford yet another distraction. I’ve already had too many for one day.

The first was on the train. I emerged from my sleeper cabin to enter the dining car for breakfast, where I was seated near two fae males dressed in fine suits. I knew they were fae because of their pointed ears. Not to mention one had horns while the other had a long, whiplike tail. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t tear my eyes from them. And not just because they were fae. While I am still getting used to seeing people who are hardly more than myth where I’m from, I was more fascinated by their beauty. They were two of the most beautiful males I’d ever laid eyes on, and the longer I admired them, the faster my imagination began to spin. Before I knew it, I had my pen, inkwell, and notebook in hand, my breakfast forgotten, and I was chronicling a tale of heart-wrenching romance.

I named the characters Johannes and Timothy. Johannes—the one with the horns—was a surgeon, and he’d saved the life of Timothy with the tail. They fell hopelessly in love, but their budding relationship was struck by a shocking twist of fate; Johannes was the former fiancé of Timothy’s best friend! And when I got to the love scene—oh, I just knew Timothy would do something delicious with that tail…

And that was how I missed my stop.

Those closest to me have always said my imagination would be my downfall. They might be right if it wasn’t also the very reason I’m here. I was invited to the isle of Faerwyvae because of my imagination. Or, more accurately, the books it helps me produce.

Back home in Bretton, I’m a nobody. An unknown author with little to her name. But by some miracle, I’m slightly famous in Faerwyvae, this fantastical isle where humans and fae live side by side. At least, that’s what my publisher told me when he proposed a month-long tour for my newest book—the first book I’ve written about fae characters. This was supposed to be my chance to prove myself worthy of the publishing contract I’ve secured. A rather generous contract, mind you, especially compared to the meager coins I make in Bretton for my years of hard work. I was hoping my book tour would result in another contract.

Yet my hopes have unraveled every day since I left home. Because today isn’t my first mishap. Technically speaking, I am two weeks late to my own book tour.

Two.

Weeks.

I swear, nothing that happened before today was my fault.

I nearly weep with relief once I finally spot Wuthering Avenue and glimpse the sign that reads Flight of Fancy Bookshop across the street. The blisters marring my ankles scream in protest as I wait with the other pedestrians for a break in carriage traffic. They scream even louder as I rush across the street. I’m gasping for breath by the time I stop outside the bookshop, and despite the relentless stream of people weaving around me, I abandon all sense of both vanity and pride. I lower my arms, drop my carpet bag onto the sidewalk, and mutter a desperate, “Thank God.”

A chuckle emerges from a man I hadn’t previously noticed amidst the bustle of the sidewalk. I’m doubled over, catching my breath, as he pushes off the wall he was leaning against and gives me an amused once-over.

He looks to be my age or a few years younger. I’m nine-and-twenty, so that puts him around…five-and-twenty perhaps? He’s tall and slender, possessing the kind of roguish beauty that is so haphazard, it must be genuine. His hair is a pale blond that falls in lazy curls over one brow. From the rounded curve of his ears, he’s human. Or at least partially so. Only pureblood fae have pointed ears. He wears gray slacks, a matching waistcoat, and a crooked cravat. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows and his hands are tucked in his trouser pockets. Pressed between his lips is a cigarillo, but based on the sweet floral-vanilla scent that fills the air between us, he isn’t smoking the cloying tobacco that is popular in Bretton. For all I know, it’s some fancy fae herb.

His proximity to the bookstore suggests he’s either a shop patron or perhaps a clerk out on his break. Or…maybe he’s here to see me? That is my purpose at Flight of Fancy; I’m here to sign books and meet my fans.

The man untucks his hands from his pockets, glancing from me to my carpet bag and back again. He flashes a disarming grin that reveals a dimple in his cheek. “You wouldn’t happen to be Edwina Danforth, would you?”

I straighten and attempt to smooth my hair, only to find my tresses are still tangled in my spectacles. “I am,” I say with as much poise as one can muster while blowing hair from one’s face.

He takes another drag from his cigarillo. “I didn’t think you were coming.”

“I know I’m late. I’m terribly sorry. Are you…here for the signing?”

His grin deepens as he closes the distance between us and extends his free hand. “Monty Phillips, Junior Publicist at Fletcher-Wilson.”

“Oh!” I take his hand with enthusiasm. Fletcher-Wilson is my publisher in Faerwyvae. “You must be in charge of the tour. Please tell me today’s signing hasn’t been canceled.”

“It hasn’t.” His smile briefly falters. “Did you receive our last telegram?”

Oh no. Not that tone of voice. I can’t help but assume bad news is coming. “On the ship, yes. I was informed the tour would continue as planned, and that I’d only miss two dates: the signings for the Summer Court and Sea Court.”

“Right, but we sent a follow-up telegram to the Glassbeach Hotel last week.”

My stomach sinks. “The Glassbeach Hotel was full by the time I was cleared by customs. I was relocated to the Pink Swan.”

“Ah.” He rubs his brow. “Well, it’s no matter. I can tell you now. Even though Mr. Fletcher decided not to postpone or cancel the tour, he felt it was prudent to make use of the signings you’d miss, as well as secure an alternate author, should you fail to arrive at all.”

It takes me several seconds to process what he could mean. “Are…are you saying I’ve been replaced? But I’m here now. I came all this way.” I snap my mouth shut, determined not to say a word more. Discomfort bubbles in my chest, a familiar sensation that always serves as a precursor to me shoving my metaphorical foot in my mouth. I hate being misunderstood and struggle not to defend myself. Yet I’ve learned time and time again that I’m better off being patient and expressing myself clearly, slowly, and concisely?—

“I promise, I would have arrived on time if I could.” The words fly from my lips at a rapid pace, and as much as I want to swallow them back, I can’t stop now that I’ve begun. “I wasn’t expecting the shipwreck. Though calling it a shipwreck is an exaggeration, I’ll admit. But a storm really did hit while my ship was crossing the channel between Bretton and Faerwyvae. Our journey was waylaid for days, and by the time we corrected course and reached the isle, we docked at the wrong port. As you can imagine, it created a nightmare ordeal for customs processing. I was stuck in my cabin for almost an entire week while they sorted out the mess.”

“Miss Danforth?—”

“And I know I’m late today, which is unforgivable. It’s only partially my fault.”

He opens his mouth but seems to think better of it, taking a long drag from his cigarillo instead.

Words continue to pour from my lips. “You see, I asked a will-o-the-wisp for directions. Please don’t lecture me; I already feel foolish enough. I was here an hour early…before I got lost. And before that, I was going to arrive an entire three hours early. But then I missed my stop. That wasn’t…well, that was my fault too. I had this brilliant idea for a story, and since it involved fae characters, I thought Mr. Fletcher might be interested in a new proposal?—”

“Miss Danforth,” Mr. Phillips says, his tone firm this time, “you’re not being replaced.”

The discomfort leaves my chest and I’m finally able to cease my string of excuses. “I’m not?”

“No, you’ve merely gained a tour companion.” He steps to the side and waves toward an A-frame sign near the bookshop door. At the top reads: The Heartbeats Tour. Beneath that is my name, Edwina Danforth, followed by another, William Haywood.

My mouth twitches, begging to frown, but I try to force my lips into a steady grin. As much as it rankles my pride to share what was supposed to be my tour, it’s better than being replaced entirely. I glance from the sign to Mr. Phillips.

His dimple-framed smile returns, as if that’s supposed to placate me. He halfheartedly flourishes his hand. “You write steamy romance, he writes bittersweet poetry. You’re a match made in heaven. Like you, he’s one of Fletcher-Wilson’s newest and brightest authors.”

Well, I do like being called new and bright, even if the compliment was placed in conjunction with one for this William Haywood fellow. I study the sign once more, reading the title out loud. “The Heartbeats Tour.”

Mr. Phillips takes my bag from the ground and tilts his head toward the door. “Copies of your book are inside and waiting to be signed. Are you ready?”

That refills my well of pride, bringing with it a spark of excitement. I haven’t even seen my newest book yet, and I’ve never so much as signed a copy for anyone who wasn’t family.

Right. This is the most important day of my life. I can do this. I can…share my tour. It’s not like I’ll lose anything. I already have a publishing contract. What’s the worst that can happen?

I take a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

With a nod, Mr. Phillips turns toward the bookshop—only to whirl back to face me. Frowning, he gestures toward the side of his face, near his eye. “Do you want to…”

I blink at him before I understand what he’s miming. Only then do I recall the hair still wound around the arm of my spectacles. “Oh, right.” Blushing furiously, I unravel my tangled strands, tearing a few straight from my scalp in the process.

As I replace my lenses, I catch sight of Monty Phillips shaking his head in clear amusement. He takes another drag of his cigarillo, then disposes of the butt in a small metal receptacle by the door. With a wink, he says, “This is going to be a very interesting tour, Miss Danforth.”