Chapter 5
The last thing I want is to have dinner with my new nemesis, but I don’t know what the alternative is if I refuse. I’m still new to this situation. I’ve never been on a book tour before nor have I had a publicist. Mr. Phillips seems to serve as a tour manager as well, and if he’s in charge of our room, board, and meal budget, then it’s probably best that I stay at his side. Or at least until I’m comfortable enough to go off on my own.
I have my own money, at least, thanks to my generous publishing advance from The Governess and the Fae. Eleven pouches full of eleven different currencies—one for each of the fae courts—are packed in my carpet bag.
But…tour budget. I really should take advantage of that, shouldn’t I?
Dinner turns out to be delightful, served in the public dining room at the quaint inn we’ll be staying at. I’ve already seen my modest bedroom and confirmed the arrival of all my luggage. Which means I am indeed wearing shoes once more. I never found out what Mr. Haywood did with my uncomfortable pair, but good riddance.
If only I could be rid of him too. I glare at him whenever I unintentionally meet his eyes from across the dining table, but he remains perfectly unflustered. Ignoring me, aside from that infuriating smirk of his. At least I don’t have to talk to him. There are plenty of others at our table to engage his attention. Mr. Phillips invited the shopkeeper, Arwen, to join us once Flight of Fancy was closed for the evening, and she brought along two friends who work at nearby shops.
I haven’t interacted much with the working class, aside from at my local public house, where I like to write with a pint of ale. Most of my other interactions come from the occasional visits to my parents’ estate. My family isn’t aristocratic by any means, but they are wealthy. Were they not, I don’t think they would have entertained my vocation as a writer. As the middle daughter with six siblings, all of whom either married well or went into business well, I am just expendable enough to be granted some freedoms. I live in my own cramped apartment above a butcher’s shop in the city. So long as I keep my own home and don’t rely on my family’s funds, they won’t pressure me to marry. If I ever did move back to the family estate, I’d undoubtedly be forced to marry, for women in Bretton are considered the property of their parents, brothers, or husbands well into adulthood. Unless they have a career like me, which isn’t commonplace. But I, the expendable middle daughter, get to devote my entire life to writing.
Yet, as free as I am, this trip is teaching me just how small my world was before. Not just because I come from Bretton or because I’ve never met fae people or talking creatures before, but because I’ve missed out on perfectly ordinary experiences, like dining with shopkeepers or staying at an inn. Excitement bubbles inside me. I know that this—all I’m getting to experience—will make my writing richer.
After dinner, the dining room grows crowded, the atmosphere shifting into lively frivolity as drinks are favored over food. Scents of smoke and alcohol infuse the air, mingling with the laughter and chatter. The others have gone to cavort with strangers while I remain alone at our table, nursing my second pint of ale. It tastes different from the ale back home, but it’s delightful, crisp, and refreshing as it fills me with a calm buoyancy.
It’s exactly what I need to keep less pleasant thoughts from consuming me. The publishing contract. The promise of fame. The prestige I’ve been fighting for my entire career. The fact that I might have already lost my chance. Mr. Haywood is clearly superior to me when it comes to sales. Daphne said so herself; he’s already had a head start. Even Monty stated Mr. Haywood will most likely garner the most sales by the end of the tour, despite his confidence in me. If I can’t find a way to sell more books than him…
I force the stressful considerations from my mind and slump lower in my chair, glad no one is paying attention to me or my undignified posture. My notebook is open to my playful entry entitled Fourteen Ways to Die in Faerwyvae: An Illustrated Guide. I’m revising my sketch of the wisp to make Way to Die Number Seven more accurate when a shadow falls over my page. The dining room is already rather dim thanks to the dark oak walls and minimal lighting fixtures that hang from the ceilings. Clenching my jaw, I ready my glare and look over my shoulder. Sure enough, there stands William Haywood, a glass of violet wine in hand.
“Cute,” he says flatly, arching a brow at my drawing.
I close my notebook. “Is pestering me really so satisfying that you had to seek me out?”
He scoffs. “I’m not here for you, Ed.”
My cheeks heat. “Do not call me Ed.”
“Weenie, then?”
I whirl fully around. My voice trembles with the restraint it takes to keep from shouting. “You will not call me Weenie either. It’s Miss Danforth to you.”
He leans down and props his forearms—his very bare and admittedly impressive forearms—on the back of the chair beside me. No longer in his suit jacket, his sleeves have been rolled to his elbows. His cravat hangs loose around his neck, his waistcoat is open, and the collar of his shirt has been unbuttoned to his clavicle. There’s a flush to his complexion that speaks of his inebriation.
“Oh, come now,” he says, voice low and poisonously sweet. He tilts his head in a boyish manner, and I’m struck by the realization that I haven’t a clue how old he is. He looks close to Monty’s or my age, but fae aging is still a mystery to me. My brochure explained that most fae cease aging when they reach maturity. For all I know, Mr. Haywood could be anywhere from five-and-twenty to two thousand. He takes a sip of his wine, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “We’re going to become far too familiar over the course of the month to keep such formalities like surnames.”
I blame the ale, but I find myself momentarily disarmed. “Then, if you must, you can call me Edwina.”
“Aw, I want to be on a first name basis too,” Mr. Phillips says as he approaches the table with an overfull tray. “I’d be honored if you’d call me Monty.”
He sets the tray down at the center of our table to reveal an assortment of colorful beverages, some in wine glasses and others in tumblers. William removes his forearms from the back of the chair and plants himself upon the seat. Right next to me. He slumps to the side, legs spread wide, and somehow still manages to look graceful. Yet he’s angled too close to me, and I note the way the hem of my skirt brushes the leg of his trousers. I changed before dinner, so at least my skirt doesn’t drag on the ground. Though…is the way it touches Mr. Haywood any better?
I abruptly scoot several inches from him.
Daphne hops into the seat at my other side while Arwen and her two companions settle in beside William. Monty remains standing and flourishes a hand at the tray. “Enjoy.”
There are twice as many beverages as there are bodies at our table, and I’m the only one who doesn’t immediately reach for a drink. Daphne extends her paws toward a tiny cup and brings its contents to her whiskered muzzle.
“What are you drinking?” I ask.
“Blackberry cordial.”
Watching a pine marten consume spirits is not something I ever thought I’d see in my lifetime. I assess Monty’s beverage next, a clear liquid in a tumbler. “And you?”
“This?” He frowns and takes a drag from the cigarillo he holds between two fingers. “Water. I don’t imbibe anymore. I’m a working man now. Responsible.” He says it with very little enthusiasm, then throws back a swallow of his benign beverage with the gusto of a man who must have once imbibed a great deal.
There’s a story there, I can sense it.
But more interestingly…
Booze.
I study the tray and find another pint of the same ale I’ve been drinking. But how can I keep drinking ale when there’s such a colorful spread before me? Violet wine like William drinks. An entire bottle of blackberry cordial. And several glasses of a rather curious drink that is clear indigo on the bottom half and a creamy pastel blue on the top. I note this is Arwen and her companions’ beverage of choice.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing at the one on the tray.
William leans forward and slaps me lightly on the back of my hand. “Not for you.”
I burn him with a seething glare. “Excuse me?—”
“He’s probably right about that,” Monty says with a chuckle. “That’s Cloud Dive. It reacts differently with everyone but has a stronger effect on humans.”
So it’s a fae beverage. I was cautioned about fae fruits in my brochure. Overconsumption of fae spirits is Way to Die Number Nine, but if I remember correctly, the warning was specifically regarding liquor made from dangerous fae fruits.
I glance at Arwen and her companions who chat animatedly. The sylph shopkeeper is clearly pureblood fae, but the two women with her have rounded ears. They seem to be enjoying Cloud Dive just fine.
I glance back at the layered beverage with no small amount of longing. I at least want to know what it tastes like?—
“Not. For. You.” With every word, William inches closer and closer until our shoulders brush, his eyes locked on mine. He blinks at me, his lids slow and heavy. “Trust me.”
“Trust you? Why should I trust you?” He’s my rival, not to mention he’s already more inebriated than I am. I scoot even farther away from him and face Monty. “What exactly are its ill effects?”
Monty shrugs. “Cloud Dive’s motto is It goes to your head. It’s the Wind Court’s specialty and represents the element of air. For some, that means a feeling of lightness or ease. For others, it enhances their sense of intellect. Creatives use it to generate new ideas. But that can also devolve into an overinflated ego and delusions of grandeur.”
That doesn’t sound so bad. Especially the part about enhancing intellect and generating ideas. I need more story ideas! I’ll need something to show I deserve a three-book contract. Controlling sales numbers is impossible, but presenting three brilliant book proposals is something I can do. Maybe this liquid muse can help.
William’s eyes bore into my profile. If he wanted me to show restraint, he shouldn’t have tried to stop me. Now half the reason I want to drink it is to spite him. I reach for the glass. William tries to intercept me, but a slender blue hand falls over the back of his.
Arwen dances her fingertips up his forearm, drawing his eyes to hers. “Let her have fun,” she says, batting her lashes in a way that looks far too effortless. She angles herself toward him, and her fingertip glides up his arm until it’s under his chin. “Tell me one of your poems.”
William forgets me entirely, shifting toward her, and for some reason, that fills me with rage.
Without a second thought, I take the glass from the tray and down its contents.