Chapter 2
Ifollow Mr. Phillips inside the bookstore and abruptly pull up short. All the awe I abandoned while I was frantically searching for my destination returns. The interior of the shop is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. From the outside, Flight of Fancy looked like any other business with its two-story cream exterior and green-and-white striped awning. I was too preoccupied to even look at the window display. Now Flight of Fancy has my full attention.
The interior is a white-dappled blue that resembles a midday sky, the ceilings high to accommodate the tallest bookshelves I’ve ever seen. A wooden staircase leads to a second-floor loft area, which is so crowded with shop patrons, I can’t see what it holds. Chatter fills the air, along with scents of paper and tea, the latter courtesy of the small café located at the back of the first floor. Movement catches my eye from the nearest wall, drawing my gaze to a book that has slid from one of the tall shelves of its own accord. My pulse kicks up as I expect it to fall, but its descent is slow and graceful. The front and back covers splay open, and to my surprise, they begin to flap like wings, its interior pages gently rippling as the book soars from the shelf to the checkout counter.
Behind the counter stands a female fae with blue skin and pastel blue hair that ripples on a wind I don’t feel. She’s gorgeous, dressed the way I wish I was, in a white blouse, a blue skirt, and a matching waistcoat. She extends her hands, and the flying book alights upon them, going still as it lands.
“That’s Arwen.”
I jump at the sound of Monty Phillips’ voice. I was so entranced I’d almost forgotten the publicist’s presence. “Oh?”
“She’s the shopkeeper at Flight of Fancy. A sylph. She uses her air magic to make the books seem enchanted when she takes them from the shelves for customers.”
I assess the fae woman with new eyes. So that’s what a sylph looks like. She might be offended to know I mistook a wisp for her kind earlier today. The blue flamelike creature who sent me off course looks nothing like the humanoid beauty behind the counter. Then again, I read in my visitor’s brochure that most fae can shift between two physical forms, what they call seelie and unseelie. A fae’s seelie form is a manifestation modeled after human likeness, while unseelie form often takes on the appearance of an animal, spirit, or element. Most of my encounters have been with seelie fae, as those who prefer their unseelie form often reside in the wild. Ever since disembarking the ship that brought me to Faerwyvae, I’ve only been in three locations: the port town, the train, and…here. So my experience with faekind in general is quite limited.
“Who is this, Monty?”
Another voice steals my attention from the sylph, this one female. But when I glance before me, I can’t locate the source.
“Ah, Daphne, you’re here,” Mr. Phillips says, his gaze lowered to the floor.
I follow his line of sight and find a small furry creature staring up at me. Before I can think better of it, I utter a yelp and launch a step back.
“Rude, but all right,” the female voice says.
I blink at the creature. The voice came from its direction, but I saw no movement from its mouth to suggest the animal had spoken. And…what kind of animal even is this? A weasel of sorts? It’s about the size of a house cat, but with a shape I can only describe as an elongated fox with an arched back, small triangular ears, and a long fluffy tail. Its fur is a gray-brown but with a cream throat and underbelly.
Mr. Phillips snorts a laugh that he manages to turn into a cough. “Daph, this is Edwina Danforth.”
“Ah, our very late author, gracing us with her presence.”
“Miss Danforth, this is Daphne, an intern at Fletcher-Wilson.”
“Intern,” I echo. Embarrassment heats my cheeks and I face the creature named Daphne. “I’m so sorry. You simply startled me. You’re the first unseelie fae I’ve met.”
“Clearly you haven’t met a pine marten either,” she says, her tone low, flat, and unamused. Again her voice carries from her form despite the lack of motion from her mouth. It must be fae magic that allows her to communicate without the use of lips or vocal cords.
“I haven’t,” I say, desperate to remedy the awful first impression I’ve made. I shift from foot to foot, unsure if it would be more respectful to crouch and speak to her eye-to-eye. But since Mr. Phillips remains standing, I do the same.
“Is this all your luggage?” Mr. Phillips asks, gesturing toward my carpet bag he still carries. “Or did you store the rest at the station?”
“The latter,” I say.
“Then I’ll store your bag behind the counter and fetch the rest while you get settled. You can handle the signing while I’m gone, right, Daphne?”
“Is this your way of sneaking out for another smoke break?” Daphne says with the same unamused monotone she used with me. Perhaps that’s just her usual voice after all? I’d rather that be the case than to think I truly offended her.
He chuckles. “Take her upstairs, won’t you, Daffy Dear?”
She huffs, but darts toward the staircase. “Right this way, Miss Danforth.”
I belatedly follow, my gaze tilted toward the loft and the crowd that gathers beyond the oak railing. It makes sense the signing would be held there. From the look of things, it’s already underway.
My tour companion must already be here. He, of course, would have arrived on time, unlike me.
Anxiety tickles my chest at the thought of being put on display before all these strangers, not to mention a fellow author, but I do my best to breathe my worries away.
As Daphne slinks up the stairs, my awe over meeting my first unseelie fae returns. Questions burn my tongue, and it’s all I can do to keep them in my head and not utter them out loud. But I’m desperate to know. Does Daphne have a surname, or am I really to address her by first name like Mr. Phillips did? Does she always take unseelie form? Does she have a humanoid form, or is she the type of fae who prefers never to shift? Is a pine marten’s fur soft? Would she let me pet her, or is that the most offensive thing I could?—
I bite back a squeak, my uncomfortable shoes snagging on the lace hem of my too-long skirt. I trip but manage to catch myself on the rail before I fall completely. Damn this dress and all its lacy layers.
My spectacles slide down my nose as I right myself. I shove the bridge up and regain my composure, but to my humiliation, I’ve caught the attention of a cluster of shop patrons closest to the upper rail. I give them a forced smile, then resume my ascent. Daphne has already reached the top, where she scurries in between the many patrons’ legs and skirt hems until she’s out of sight.
I don’t bother rushing after her and instead take my time reaching the top step. Once there, I assess the loft. The walls are painted in the same blue and white as they are downstairs, but the bookshelves lining the walls are only chest high. The ceiling is arched and strung with ropes of orb-shaped lights. Their glow is more luminescent than the gaslight we have in Bretton. Faerwyvae is known for its use of electricity, fueled by the ley lines of fae magic that crisscross the isle. Above the strings of lights flutter dozens of folded paper birds. While the flying book I witnessed downstairs was an illusion of practical air magic, the paper birds must be enchanted.
Something snags my hem. I glance down to find Daphne sitting back on her haunches, her clawed paw tugging my skirt. “Come along. Your table is back here.”
She darts through the crowd, and this time I try to keep up with her. Try being the operative term, for she’s small and agile, while I’m short but very much human-sized amongst a sea of figures who all seem to be a head taller than me. They pay me no heed as I weave between them, as all are either locked in conversation with their neighbors or fixated on the back of the room, eager expressions on their faces. Most appear human, an even mix of men and women, though I catch sight of a few pointed ears, vibrant hair or skin, or animalistic features like whiskers or antlers. There isn’t a distinct line, but at least half seem to be waiting for their turn to reach the back of the room, while the others casually loiter about. This is the first time I’ve seen such a vibrant and social atmosphere in a bookstore. I suppose this is also the first time I’ve been to a book signing. I’m so overwhelmed I almost miss the books many are holding—a clothbound volume in green with gold foil details.
Could that be…
Is that my book?
Are they waiting for me?
There’s a greater chance they’re waiting for my tour companion—you know, the author who’s here already—but that is far less exciting of a prospect.
Still, the thought of meeting my readers has me pushing toward the back of the room with less trepidation, offering apologies to those I jostle in my rush. The closer I get, the denser the crowd. I can no longer simply slip between the clusters of figures and must firmly tap those in front of me on the shoulder and kindly ask them to step aside. At the disgruntled looks I get, I explain, “I’m the other author. I’m trying to reach my table.”
That results in furrowed brows but reluctant acquiescence. My voice is nearly hoarse from this constant refrain until only a few figures stand between me and the two tables I can barely make out just ahead. The tables are set between bookcases that span from wall to wall, and the only way to get behind the two tables is through a gap in between them. A gap which is thoroughly blocked. I glance from the three chatting gentlemen to the left and the tall woman to the right. If one of these four would move a few inches one way or the other, I could skirt around and reach my destination. I choose the woman and reach for her shoulder, preparing to tap it, but before my hand can make contact, she bends forward, leaving my fingers in midair.
“Will you sign this too? It’s for my sister.” The woman retrieves a copy of the green-and-gold book from a bag on the floor. Then another. “And this? It’s for my cousin.”
I think she adds a third book to the stack but I can’t be sure because my attention has been swallowed by the man who sits behind the table. He’s tall, but not in the way that almost everyone seems tall compared to me. Even with him seated, even with his posture tilted slightly to the side in an aura of casual grace, I can tell he’d tower over me. His shoulders are broad, hugged by his emerald-and-sage suit. His cream silk cravat is slightly loose, showing off the cords in his neck and the angles of his decidedly masculine throat. Then there’s his hair. Its messy style conjures images of bedroom activities but with a neatness that suggests every wayward strand was placed with precision. His strands are a shade so dark they can’t seem to decide whether they’re slate, black, or violet. They sweep over the pointed tips of his ears—ears that are decorated in an array of gold piercings, from studs to cuffs to delicate hoops. My gaze drops to his eyes, a hue so aggravatingly blue I could weep.
Thisis William Haywood? The poet? My tour companion?
I don’t know whether to be elated or envious. No wonder the loft is so crowded. They’re all here to see him, this…goddamn work of art.
The woman before me finally straightens, her stack of books now as high as her chest. I shake my head to clear it and prepare again to tap her on the shoulder. Despite my momentary distraction, I was able to catch a better glimpse of my table. Even now I notice a stack of mauve books growing behind the three still-chatting gentlemen, and the tiny, clawed paw that sets them there. Daphne must be unpacking a crate of my books. The previously empty table certainly speaks to my publisher’s lack of optimism over my arrival today.
Clearing my throat, I tap the woman’s shoulder at last.
She ignores me.
I tap it again, but it’s to no avail. She’s prattling on and on to Mr. Haywood. I can no longer see him behind her, but his deep baritone reaches my ears as he utters sounds of interest, the scratch of his pen sliding over paper.
With a huff, I turn toward the trio of men instead. “Excuse me,” I say, tapping the nearest on the shoulder.
He shifts to the side, but instead of facing me, he faces my table. His attention snags on the stack of books. Gathering the topmost one in hand, he reads the title out loud. “The Governess and the Fae.”
My heart flips in my chest at hearing my book’s name read aloud. I’m so desperate to see the cover, to hold it in my hands for the first time. I sidle closer to the man, prepared to force my way between the two tables if I must. Just then, the man with my book whirls toward the poet. I leap to the side so as not to collide with him and bump into another figure instead. The girl with the mountain of books is gone, but the next woman in line has taken her place.
“Excuse me, I was here first,” she says, shooting daggers at me with her eyes.
I wave my hands. “No, you don’t understand?—”
“Is this one of yours?” asks the man holding my book.
I abandon the woman and face him, a glowing grin stretching my lips. “Why, yes?—”
“Of course it’s not mine,” Mr. Haywood says.
My mouth snaps shut. The man had been asking the poet, not me.
Mr. Haywood reclines in his seat, a crooked smirk on his lips. “The Governess and the Fae,” he says in a mocking tone. “Do you think I’d write such smut and drivel?”
The man chuckles and tosses my book back on the table without a second glance.
Fury heats my cheeks as the trio of men finally saunter off, my precious book left crooked beside the stack Daphne was so carefully constructing. My fingers curl into fists as I stare after the men. I can’t tell whether I’m more hurt, humiliated, or enraged.
“Are you next?” The deep voice shreds my every nerve.
I turn back around and find I’m still standing before Mr. Haywood, the girl beside me nearly growling with impatience.
The fae poet looks up at me, his pen poised above the empty space on the title page inside his book. His head is tilted coyly to the side, a seductive grin on his lips. “And who might you be, love?”
“Edwina Danforth.”
He lowers his gaze to his page and begins to scrawl out my name. I skirt between the two tables and settle into my chair with all the grace and trembling restraint of a vengeful goddess.
He frowns, pen frozen, then slowly meets my eyes.
I lift my chin, retrieve the crooked book, and place it neatly on top of the stack. “Author of smut and drivel.”