Chapter 4
After two more hours, the crowd thins out and the end of the line is in sight. William Haywood’s line, that is. I never manage to gain much of a line myself. In fact, only a few more readers approach my table at all, but each interaction is heartfelt, genuine, and a boon to my pride. It’s enough to keep me from being too jealous of Mr. Haywood’s incessant stream of fans. Besides, the lack of attention on me provides the perfect opportunity to covertly remove my shoes and rub my aching feet.
I dread the thought of putting my shoes back on. At this point, I’ll be happy never to don them again. Perhaps I can get away with going barefoot until I’m reunited with the luggage Mr. Phillips fetched from the station. I haven’t seen the publicist or Daphne much at all in the last hour. I reach into my dress pocket and retrieve my brass pocket watch. It’s a quarter to three. In a matter of minutes, the signing will come to its official end.
Only one reader remains in the loft, and once he leaves Mr. Haywood’s table, it will only be me and Asshole Poet. I decide I’d rather be busy when that happens, so I set about packing my remaining books into the two crates. I only sold a total of five since most of my fans already had a copy of The Governess and the Fae.
The last guest says his farewell to Mr. Haywood, then his footsteps sound down the stairs. The silence left in their wake makes my skin crawl. I pour all my attention into rearranging the books in the crate, making far more noise than necessary.
Even with my purposeful distraction, it’s impossible to miss the sound of Mr. Haywood’s movements as he rises from his chair. Every inch of my body is aware of his footsteps and the shift of his shadow as he leans against the edge of his table.
“I truly didn’t expect you to show up.”
I bristle. That’s how he greets me? No formal introduction? No, Sorry I made an ass of myself with that poor first impression. I never should have insulted your life’s work by calling it smut and drivel. Let’s start over? I know most fae are less formal than humans are. Hell, some don’t even have surnames, which is one of the main pillars of formality amongst human society. But I’d have taken even a casual greeting without offense.
I finally bring myself to look up at him, a cold smile on my lips while I bat my lashes. “Were you hoping I’d let you steal my tour entirely?”
“I was.” His posture is leisurely, ankles crossed, hands propped at the edge of the table beside his hips. The light from the strings of glowing bulbs that crisscross the ceiling above him catches on his gold earrings. I notice he has more on his right ear than his left, lacking all sense of symmetry.
That, of course, means I’m staring. I shake my head and drag my gaze to my pen and ink pots, which I place in the crate. “You admit it.”
He shrugs. “The tour should have been mine in the first place. I was here. I showed up.”
That familiar discomfort writhes in my chest, begging me to explain myself again like I did outside the bookshop with Mr. Phillips. This time, I manage to stop myself before the deluge can leave my lips and instead give him a curt, “Well, I’m here now. So don’t get too comfortable.”
“Oh, I don’t think my comfort is at risk. I may have been a tad worried when you first arrived, but you’re no competition after all.”
His words send fire to my cheeks. I rise to my feet and face him with my hands on my hips. “No, Mr. Haywood, I’m not your competition. We don’t write in the same genre. We don’t share the same readers. But for some asinine reason, we’ve been forced to share this tour. What was supposed to be my tour. You’re lucky to be involved at all, so I suggest you get down from your high horse and thank me for being late and bestowing upon you the honor of being in my company.”
His expression goes slack for all of a second before a corner of his mouth lifts. Maybe I’m imagining it, but he almost looks impressed. Or perhaps just amused. But the deeper his smirk grows, the more it makes my skin crawl. It looks a little too much like that seductive grin he first used on me when I arrived. After which he proceeded to shine it upon guest after guest after guest. His cheeks must ache after donning such a contrived expression without end. I can’t fathom how I found that look even remotely dazzling when I first laid eyes upon him.
I wish I could say I found him less attractive now that I’ve gotten the full scope of his personality, yet he remains a work of art. A portrait of a devil, perhaps, but a beautiful one. I can’t help but feel the contrast between us, with my dirty hem, bare feet, and undoubtedly wild hair.
He breaks my gaze with a sigh and rubs the back of his neck in an aggravated gesture that gives the ends of his hair an extra tousle. Then, swiveling to the side, he reaches for something on his table before facing me once more. “A peace offering then,” he says, tone brimming with reluctance.
I stare down at the hand he’s extended toward me, bearing a green book with gold foil. It’s Mr. Haywood’s book. The title reads: A Portrait of June, Etched in Solace.
I snort a laugh. A pretentious title if I’ve ever seen one.
He thrusts the book closer to me.
I glance from the cover to Mr. Haywood’s face. His gaze hovers somewhere above my shoulder, as if he’d rather look anywhere but at me. I shake my head. “No thank you.”
“It’s yours.”
“It’s not.”
“It has your name in it,” he says, finally deigning to meet my gaze. “I signed it for you and everything.”
“I don’t want it.”
“It’s free.”
“I. Don’t. Want. It.”
“Well, I can’t use it now.” He leans forward and sets it on my table, never breaking eye contact even as he leans uncomfortably close. “Not unless someone named Ed asks for a copy.”
I hold my breath, forcing myself not to flinch back. I only exhale once he leans back into his previous position. Belatedly, I process his words. “Ed? What do you mean Ed?”
His smirk returns, and this time there’s a wicked edge to it. “That’s all I had time to write before I realized who you were.”
Irritation boils my blood. I lift the book from my table and flourish it before him. “That makes the book even less mine. My name is not Ed. I don’t want a book addressed to someone named Ed. And I certainly don’t want a copy of your book in any form.”
With an indignant huff, I slam the book against his chest, which doesn’t so much as make him stagger back. I let go and he fumbles to catch it before it can fall to the ground.
I take the opportunity to make my exit and march toward the stairs. I’m almost to the first step when his voice grates upon my ears. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Ed?”
I’ve never felt so much indignation in all my life. I whirl around, ready to spew a thousand insulting nicknames of my own, but the words catch in my throat. He’s still slouched against the edge of his table, his book in one hand. In the other, he holds my shoes, which dangle from his fingertips by their laces.
Mortification clogs my throat. It’s bad enough that he knows I’m barefoot. Now he’s touching my shoes. Shoes I ran around town and sweated profusely in.
He looks at me from under his lashes, taunting me with the ever-growing curve of his lips. “I’m not giving back your shoes until you take the book.”
“Then you can keep them both.” On bare feet, I whirl on my heel and storm down the stairs, stomping my fury with every step.
I regretthe stomping as I reach the bottom floor and find the bookstore silent now that the signing is over. Shop patrons pause their perusal of the shelves to cast me bewildered looks. I shrink down, my expression apologetic. Now that I’m down here, I’m not sure where to go. I’d like to be reunited with my luggage and better shoes, if possible. Or at least my carpet bag, where I can find my notebook. I can certainly think of one new entry I’d like to make.
Fourteen Ways to Die in Faerwyvae: Arrogant Fae Poet Edition.
Oh, wouldn’t that be cathartic?
I recall Mr. Phillips mentioning he’d store my bag behind the counter, so I make a beeline to the sylph he’d called Arwen. She’s in the process of wrapping a stack of books in parchment and twine, likely reserving them for a customer. I give her an awkward smile as I reach the counter, unsure how to greet her. Is she the type of fae without a surname? Should I formally introduce myself?
She saves me the trouble. “How was the signing, Miss Danforth?”
“Lovely,” I say, adjusting my spectacles out of anxious habit more than necessity. “Thank you so much for hosting me. Flight of Fancy is a lovely bookshop.”
I pause. Worry my lip. I know we should exchange pleasantries a little longer, but I do so want my bag.
My next question comes out in a rush. “Do you happen to see a carpet bag behind your counter?”
Her blue hair continues to blow on a wind I don’t feel, and I make a mental note to jot down her lovely appearance as possible character inspiration. She shakes her head. “Mr. Phillips took your bag to the back room when he returned with your luggage. The room is behind that door, to the right of the café.”
I glance at the portion of the bookstore set with tables and chairs, only one of which is occupied; its patron is a fluffy raccoon who is reading a book with one hand and sipping tea with the other. Excitement buzzes in my chest. Another unseelie fae! I saw only one other during the signing, a bear in a top hat who came to see Mr. Haywood.
My mood sours at once as I recall my irritating exchange with the poet.
“Shall I escort you?” Arwen asks.
She’s still tying her parcel, so I shake my head. “I can see the door from here. Thank you.”
I make my way to the back of the shop, trying not to stare too hard at the adorable raccoon fae but failing miserably. I’m so distracted, I almost bump into one of the tables. Skirting around it more carefully this time, I approach the back door.
“Edwina doesn’t really stand a chance against him, does she?” The voice is muted behind the slightly ajar door, but I recognize the flat feminine tone as belonging to Daphne.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” says a male voice. That must be Mr. Phillips. “Today is only her first day. I think more will come to see her once word spreads that she’s not fully absent from the tour.”
I beam at his vote of confidence in me. I reach for the handle but hesitate as Daphne speaks again.
“Yes, but he’s already had a head start. Mr. Fletcher is making his decision based on sales during the tour, isn’t he? That’s what Sandy in marketing said.”
“He is,” Mr. Phillips says, “and I do believe total sales might be in Mr. Haywood’s favor by the end if today’s turnout is indicative of future signings. But there’s also a choice involved on their end. Mr. Haywood may not want to publish three more poetry books. You’ve heard the way he talks about his grand and most illustrious art, that which can neither be forced nor tamed, but danced with like the wind and a blade of grass, or whatever it is he says.”
I’d take pleasure in his mocking tone if I wasn’t so confused over their subject matter. What is this about a decision my publisher is making?
“He’s expressed great interest in publishing more books with Fletcher-Wilson,” Daphne says.
“He has?”
“Do you pay attention to anything?”
“When I must.” I can hear the smile in Mr. Phillip’s voice. Then he takes on a more serious tone. “Maybe Miss Danforth doesn’t want to live in Faerwyvae.”
My heart leaps at the mention of my name again, but I’m more confused than ever.
“She’d have to live here?” Daphne says.
“For at least a year. It’s the best way to take advantage of the marketing budget that will come with the contract. More tours. More events. Besides, Mr. Fletcher wants any subsequent books we publish of hers to be set in modern-day Faerwyvae, and therefore factually accurate. A year of research would do her good.”
“I have to agree with that. Why did everyone in The Governess and the Fae have fangs and drink blood? Is that really what they think of us in Bretton?”
I internally wince. Daphne isn’t wrong about that inaccuracy. How was I to know better?
“Did you not know?” comes a voice beside my ear.
I jump so high, I’m surprised my soul didn’t leave my body. Turning, I find William Haywood behind me. How he snuck up so silently, I haven’t a clue.
“What are you doing here?” My voice is a furious whisper as I unceremoniously shove him by the arm until he moves away from the door. I don’t want Daphne and Mr. Phillips to know I overheard their conversation.
“Ah, you didn’t know.” He doesn’t bother to whisper like me.
“Did I not know about what? That…that fae don’t have fangs? It was a creative choice, and I stand by it?—”
“The contract,” he says, and my mouth snaps shut. “One of us will be offered a covetable contract based on our sales performance during the tour. Only one of us.”
I frown. “That can’t be true. Mr. Fletcher said he’s open to more book proposals from me if they’re about fae characters.”
“This isn’t just any contract. This is a three-book deal with a massive advance and a significant marketing push over the next year. They’ve never offered a contract like this before and I daresay they won’t offer one like it again until they’ve tested whether it bears fruit. The offer was in your hands until you were late and nearly botched your tour.”
I blink at him, nausea writhing in my gut at the thought of what I was nearly given and might have already lost. A three-book contract. A marketing push. Fletcher-Wilson is the primary publisher in Faerwyvae. If they’re offering a one-of-a-kind contract, this truly is a rare opportunity. And if what I overheard is true, I’d have the chance to live here if I’m offered it.
I haven’t considered whether I’d want to live in Faerwyvae, but with very little tying me down back home, I can’t help but be excited at the prospect. Not to mention my publishing advance is worth ten times more in Faerwyvae than it is in Bretton, thanks to the abysmal exchange rate. I could be rich!
And yet…
The contract is not yet mine.
“Now I’ve been added to Mr. Fletcher’s considerations,” he says, voicing my exact revelation. He winks. “I hope you won’t hold it against me when I win.”
Retorts burn my chest, but I’m still too shocked. My words lack the bite I wish they had. “You…you don’t know you’re going to win.”
“Oh, but I do. I need this. I’m getting it.”
I scoff. “Is this what your competition comment was about? Because you’ve seen me as a rival from the start?”
He tilts his head to the side and gives me a patronizing look. “Oh, Ed, you’ll have to sell a lot more books to be my rival.”
Before I can react, he lifts a finger, taps me lightly on the nose, and saunters off.
My hands curl into fists. I have every intention of marching after him and giving him a piece of my mind when the back door opens.
Mr. Phillips pulls up short. “Ah, you’re here. Is the signing over?”
Daphne slinks out of the back room after him. “Do you ever look at your pocket watch or is it just for decoration?”
The publicist chuckles, then gives me a dimpled grin. “Well, then. How about we have drinks and dinner on Fletcher-Wilson’s tour budget?”