Chapter 3
To William Haywood’s credit—or perhaps to his discredit—he quickly recovers from his surprise at discovering my identity. Without looking even remotely abashed, he closes the book with my half-scrawled name, pushes it off to the side, and turns that same seductive grin he’d shone upon me to the next girl.
“I step downstairs for three whole minutes, and everyone forgets how to form a proper line,” Daphne says from beside me. Her slinky little pine marten body is inside a wooden crate as she lifts more books with tiny paws and slides them onto the table. I aid her efforts until the box is empty, and then we unpack a second crate. After that, Daphne hands me a pen and two ink pots. “That should be enough for now. I’ll see what I can do about organizing the crowd. Again.”
Without another word, she bounds off. I wish she’d organized the crowd before I got jostled around and insulted by an arrogant fae.
I can’t stop seething over his comment. Smut and drivel. My precious book. I mean, I like smut. Smut is lovely. But drivel?
Drivel?
With a huff, I scoot my chair to the right and arrange all my books to the left of my table, building them as high as I dare to forge a wall between me and Mr. Haywood. Not that I couldn’t lean back in my seat and glance directly at him without impediment, but this at least provides me some small sanctuary. Some tangible divide to keep me from marching straight over to him and slamming a book over his head.
To add insult to injury, not a soul has stepped up to my table yet, even with the crowd taking on a more distinct shape and leaving me clearly visible. Many of the loiterers have gone downstairs and a neat line now forms down the staircase. Based on the sharp yelps I hear now and then, I wouldn’t be surprised if Daphne was biting ankles to encourage the patrons to obey her directions.
And yet…is no one here for me?
My heart sinks, taking the edge off my annoyance and replacing it with disappointment. With a sigh, I remove the top book from one of my stacks and finally take a good look at the clothbound cover. It’s a beautiful shade of mauve with pink-gold foil forming a floral frame around the title: The Governess and the Fae. A soft smile curls my lips as I trace the pattern of roses, leaves, and thorns with my fingertips, then brush every letter that forms my name beneath the title. It really is the most beautiful cover I’ve ever seen on one of my books, the care and quality etched into every line of foil, every stitch in the binding.
My pride swells, consuming all my less pleasant emotions.
Thisis why I’m here.
Thisis why I do what I do.
And to think I submitted this book to Fletcher-Wilson on a whim!
I didn’t have anything to lose, considering my publisher in Bretton didn’t want anything to do with a manuscript with a fae love interest. I hadn’t anticipated such disdain, but I often forget the tensions that lie between Bretton and Faerwyvae. It’s only been twenty-four years since the last human-fae war. After the fae won their independence from Brettonish rule, they placed strict regulations on Faerwyvae’s borders, which impacted immigration and trade.
At least, that’s what I learned in my visitor’s brochure.
Before coming here, I didn’t know much about the fae at all. Growing up, the children of Bretton are taught only what’s in the history books. We learn that Faerwyvae is the only place in the world where fae reside, and that humans discovered the isle and the curious people who lived here long ago. We’re taught that humans and fae were once friends. That the fae adopted seelie form after tasting human food, donning human clothes, and learning human language. Then we’re taught about the human-fae wars, the most recent of which united the humans and fae living in Faerwyvae under fae rule. Even though humans are protected here and seem to be flourishing, visitation is rare—hence the chaos that occurred when my ship docked at the wrong port—and immigration is even rarer.
I am lucky to be here indeed.
Lucky to have this contract.
Lucky to hold this gorgeous book in my hands.
I open the cover to the title page. Then I flip to the next page, which boasts a two-page illustration so stunning it takes my breath away. Leaning forward in my seat, I shove the bridge of my spectacles and study every gorgeous inch of the artwork. I was told the book would include an illustration, but it’s one thing to hear about it and another to see it. The piece depicts the most heart-pounding scene from the book, when the governess and the wicked fae succumb to their passions in an enchanted garden. The fae male has long rippling hair, an open shirt, and a musculature that has my mouth watering while the governess stares up at her lover, her form limp and supple in his arms, the sleeves of her chemise slipping from her shoulders?—
“They’re about to do it, aren’t they?”
I slam the book shut, but it’s only Daphne who speaks over my shoulder. I didn’t notice when she leaped onto the back of my chair.
“Hey, I was looking at that.” She still speaks in the same disinterested monotone, so I can’t tell if she’s being serious.
I angle my head over my shoulder and meet her small dark eyes. “Do you read romance novels?”
“The sexier the better. Ah, there they are.” She gestures with her muzzle to the other side of the table.
I face forward in time to see a group of young human women approaching, headed by a plump beauty a few years my junior. All are outfitted in day dresses even more extravagant than mine, their hair styled in popular updos and hats with silk flowers on the brim. They almost look better suited for church than a casual trip to a bookshop.
The leader halts before my table with her hands to her lips. Tears glaze her eyes as she blinks at me. When she speaks, her voice is high and warbling. “You…you’re Edwina Danforth.”
“I am,” I say, sitting up straighter.
The woman finally pulls her hands from her mouth. “It’s really you?”
“It is.”
“You’re my favorite author!”
My heart leaps into my throat. I’ve never heard those words before. “I am?”
“Yes!”
“Me?”
“Yes!”
I want to ask if she’s sure, but her squeal of excitement confirms it. It also draws the attention of those in line at the neighboring table. A fae male with green hair and a top hat sneers in distaste at the spectacle my now sobbing fan is making.
I couldn’t be more pleased.
“They were here earlier,” Daphne says as she leaps from the back of my chair to the table. “You hadn’t arrived yet, so they left. I found them next door at the sweets shop. I’ll see if I can find the others who were hoping to see you. They might still be nearby.”
She leaps onto the floor and scurries toward the stairs.
There really were people eager to see me.
With a triumphant grin, I rise from my chair. William Haywood comes into view over my wall of books. To my great pleasure, he’s watching me with an arched brow. I refuse to meet his gaze.
With exaggerated moves, I uncap my ink pot, flourish my pen, and address my reader. “Can I sign something for you?”
“Please,” she says, fanning her tear-stained cheeks. She turns to her friends, who hand over bundle after bundle of books. My eyes widen as she sets them on my table. Not because there are so many, but because these aren’t just multiple copies of my newest book like the other young woman brought to Mr. Asshole Poet earlier. These are copies of every book I’ve ever written and published.
But only my newest book has been published in Faerwyvae. My previous titles were only published in Bretton.
I meet her eyes with astonishment. “How did you get all these?”
She beams at me. “I found a few at select bookstores around the isle that specialize in imports, but most I had to pay an arm and leg to purchase by mail from Bretton. It took me the better part of a year to collect them all.”
“But…how did you even learn about me to begin with?” My newest book is a recent release. How has she been collecting my books for a year?
“Queen Gemma’s Book Club, of course.”
“Queen Gemma’s Book Club?” I echo. “What is that?”
Her eyes go wide. “You don’t know about it? Queen Gemma is your biggest fan. She’s been praising your books since before she married the Unseelie King of Winter.”
“King of—you’re telling me Queen Gemma is an actual queen. It’s not just a…cute title? She’s a real live queen who…who likes my books?”
“She is! And she hosts a book club in the form of a monthly periodical. She chooses each month’s book, we read along and send in letters about our thoughts. She publishes some of our reviews, and a dozen club members are selected at random to join her for an in-person meeting each month. So far, the club has read half of the Governess in Love series. I daresay we’d have read them all if she didn’t try to play fair and give attention to other authors. But she simply adores you!”
I fall into my chair, my knees too weak to hold me up any longer. A queen. An actual queen is my biggest fan and she’s been promoting me for over a year. I…I can hardly process this news.
When my publisher wrote to me with the proposal for the book tour and informed me I’m slightly famous on the isle, I thought he meant my new book was making its rounds. I had no clue I’d already established a name for myself here based on my prior works. The meager royalties I earn in Bretton have done nothing to suggest my book sales have increased. My old publisher certainly hasn’t treated me like I’ve become more in-demand. It’s always been war with him, each sale a heated negotiation that always ends in me getting less than I think I deserve, followed by his unsolicited advice that I should consider writing fine literature or something targeted for the educated male reader.
The bastard forgets I did write a literary piece, and he refused to publish it since I wouldn’t agree to let him do so under a male pseudonym.
I stare at the spread of books before me, emotion clogging my throat as I experience what it’s like to have my work so thoroughly appreciated for the first time.
“Are you all right, Miss Danforth?” the woman whispers, concern etched upon her face. “I hope I haven’t upset you in some way.”
“No, of course not!” I shake my head to clear it. “It’s quite the opposite. I’m just so moved.”
I manage to return to my feet. Asshole Poet comes back into view, and I sense him staring at me. This time I meet his gaze and hold it with triumph.
Who writes drivel now, you smug bastard?
I give him too much credit by expecting he’ll finally look abashed. A corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk that oddly feels like a challenge.
I grind my teeth and give all my attention to my dear reader and her mountain of books waiting to be signed. With my largest, most genuine smile of the day, I ask, “What is your name, my book-loving friend?”