A Rivalry of Hearts

Chapter 11

Being on time is—unsurprisingly—a rather serene experience. There’s no rushing. No running. No pleading with fate to turn back the hands of time. It helps that my lodgings are only a three-minute walk from my destination. The small dorm room Jolene and I shared last night was so quaint, so much like the one I resided in when I was a college student in Bretton, it was hard to remember I was in the faelands at all. I thought perhaps Hyperion University was solely a human college, but as I enter the university library, I’m once again immersed in the splendor of fae charm.

The entrance unfolds into a grand atrium that almost looks more like a greenhouse than a library, with floors of white marble veined with gold and potted plants and flowers surrounding a wide circular fountain. Several floors of endless ivory shelves flank the atrium, lined with walkways edged with marble balustrades and colonnades.

I return my gaze to the atrium and take a better look at the fountain before me. Trickling water creates a soothing symphony as it pours from the marble statues at its center. I step closer and study the three human figures that comprise the statues. I gasp, recognizing the countenance of the closest one. It’s Ananda Badami, one of the greatest female writers of all time! With slightly more reserved excitement, I note the two other likenesses beside her. Grant Farthing, poet. Sylvain Rushworth, award-winning novelist. My heart swells to see them centered here, like guardian angels of this most precious place of literature and learning.

It’s almost a struggle to tear my eyes away, but fluttering movement catches my attention. I stare up at the glass ceiling, bright with warm golden sunlight, and spot pale blue wings. Birds the size and shape of swallows swoop overhead to perch on the statues near the ceiling or the array of greenery. I’d be alarmed that they’d create a mess of droppings, but the glittering mist that trails in their wake as they fly tells me they aren’t regular birds. They must be fae creatures, and the mist…is that what keeps the temperature so cool in the library?

Mr. Phillips informed me there was no need to dress for heat during today’s signing, and I feared he’d pulled a prank on me as I made my way from the dorm, but now I can see he was right. My green long-sleeved taffeta dress is perfectly suited for this cool indoor climate.

I’m still not recovered from my awe, but I dare not dally too long. This is one of the rare occasions I’m on time, after all, and I’d like to take advantage of that after I set up my table. I follow Monty’s directions to the far end of the atrium. There, I find a modest circular dais, which I imagine must be used for lectures from guests or events like today. Two tables stand upon the platform, and I’m not surprised to see William’s already boasts neat piles of books on display. When Monty came to my room to ensure I was ready for the event, William was already here setting up his table. Thank goodness he isn’t here now, and for the fact that we aren’t seated so close together. This time, our tables face each other from opposite sides of the dais.

I stride over to my table and find several crates full of my books. The boxes have been opened but none of the books have been displayed. I don’t have Daphne to help this time, but I can manage well enough on my own. I find a crate that’s only partially full—one with leftovers from the Wind Court signing, along with a pen, ink pots…and my uncomfortable shoes. Looks like William was bluffing when he threatened to throw them away if I didn’t take his stupid book. Well, he would have done me a favor by discarding them. I’ll have to do so myself after the signing. Keeping the shoes-I’ll-never-wear-again in the crate, I remove my books and artfully display them on my table. Only to realize one of the books is out of place.

Amidst the sea of my beautiful mauve covers is a volume in green. I scowl, recognizing it at once. Turns out my shoes weren’t the only things William returned. I remove the interloper from my stack and aggressively flip to the title page. The first thing I find is a pale pink flower petal, though I haven’t a clue how it got there. I remove it, letting it flutter to the ground, and read the page. Sure enough, I find the name Ed scrawled upon it, the D ending in a slash of ink. But that’s not all that’s written on the page. Beneath, it reads: I like smut and drivel.

I release an indignant huff. That cheeky bastard. I uncap my ink with far more force than necessary and hastily dip my pen. Beneath William’s message, I write: Well, I don’t like you. Or your book. Stop trying to give this to me.

Then I march over to his table and toss it onto his stack.

After I finish settingup my table, I check my pocket watch. Thirty minutes until the signing. I suppress an excited squeal and practically skip as I go off in search of the romance section. After begging for directions from the front desk, I find what I’m looking for on the second floor. The section isn’t quite as large as I’d hoped for such a grand library, but I can’t complain. Some of my favorite romances are shelved here, and there’s even four of mine! I open The Governess and the Duke, grinning wide as I count the names on the borrowing card. To think this many students have become acquainted with the duke’s most impressive throbbing member.

I return my book to the shelf and seek out one I haven’t read yet. I’ve spent a good ten minutes here already, which means I’ll need to return to the dais soon. In the meantime, maybe I can determine my next read…

There! I spot a title on the clothbound spine of a book I’ve been meaning to procure. It’s on the shelf above my head, and this particular title has been pushed back just enough to put it at the end of my reach. I stand on my toes and extend my arm until my fingertips brush the spine?—

I flinch as I touch flesh rather than cloth. My eyes lower to a glower when I find William standing beside me. He already has the book in hand, but instead of handing it to me, he opens it.

“There’s a thing called a ladder,” William says as he browses the title page.

“I would have reached it if you hadn’t intervened. May I have the book now?”

He leans his shoulder against the shelf. “The Stag King and His Very Large Kingdom. What kind of title is that?”

“It’s a parody, but it does the romance genre justice. Quite steamy and enjoyable, but you wouldn’t understand.” I snatch the book out of his hands and turn my back on him.

“More research into the art of seduction?”

I stiffen, mortified that he’s somehow found my notebook. But no, he probably gleaned as much from the questions I asked Monty.

His voice dips low. “Weenie, I know you’re in over your head when it comes to this bet.”

“I’m not—” I whirl to face him, but I can’t say a word when I see the knowing glint in his eyes.

He leans down, bringing his face far too close. “I know your secret, love. You told me the other night.”

“I was drunk,” I say, turning my nose up at him.

“You were vulnerable and honest.” For a moment, the teasing lilt leaves his voice. “You don’t have to pretend otherwise.”

“Oh, well, what about your secret?”

His posture goes rigid. “Mine? What secret?”

“You said you were a fraud too.”

He lowers his head, either in relief or amusement. When his eyes return to mine, there’s mirth in them. “It’s not what you’re thinking. I’m not a fraud when it comes to my romantic experience.”

“Then what are you faking?”

He gives me a cold grin. “My secrets are irrelevant to you. What matters is that I’m trying to do you a kindness. I never should have secured a bargain while you were inebriated, and I’m willing to make up for that. Say the word, and I will dissolve our bet.”

My eyes go wide. “You can do that?”

“I am the fae party in our bargain. I am the reason our bet is magically binding. But, since this is a bet with mutually binding terms proposed by a third party and not a one-sided bargain I constructed, I need your cooperation to end it. Then all I have to do is verbally release you from our bargain, stating that every term is now null and void. After that, we can act like civilized adults.”

Part of me yearns to accept his offer. I already know our bet is madness. I may rail against society’s standards for women, but that doesn’t change that I was raised in human society. Despite all the actions I’ve taken to shrug off the burdens of propriety, I still carry layers and layers of all that society tried so hard to instill within me. There’s a voice that calls me a spinster. Another that labels my past romantic relationships unchaste. I hate those voices, yet I shrink from them nonetheless.

But I don’t want to shrink. I want to be bigger than those labels and those voices.

More than anything, I want that contract. If we dissolve our bargain, I’ll have to rely solely on sales. With his head start from the first week of the tour, how can I hope to outsell him? We’ve only had one signing together, but there’s no guarantee that the rest will be better. Even after my readers returned to Flight of Fancy when they learned I’d made it, my turnout was laughable compared to William’s. And what about my research? This bet serves more than one purpose, and I can’t risk losing it now.

I take a bracing breath and meet his eyes. “We’re keeping our bargain.”

His fa?ade cracks and he releases a strained groan. “Damn it, Weenie. Why are you so determined to…to…”

I bristle, certain I know what he’s fighting not to say. “Sully my virtue? Lower my value as a woman?”

“Vex me,” he says through his teeth.

I blink at him, at the anger in his cold blue irises, the tightness in his jaw. My pulse quickens.

He braces a hand on the shelf beside us and leans toward me. “Why do you want the contract so badly, hmm? You’ve already published…what, five books?”

“Seventeen.”

“And at least one was adapted into a stage play. You’re successful, aren’t you? Opportunities abound. Why must you fight me for this contract?”

Anger sears my veins at how he talks about the contract like he has a right to it. He’s the one fighting me. The familiar discomfort writhes in my chest, and I don’t repress the volley of words that spill from my mouth.

“For your information, Willy, I don’t make any money from the titles I publish in Bretton. A few coins here and there. A small print run. I’ve seen no increase in royalties to suggest I’m earning a damn thing for the stage play adaptation. Every manuscript I bring to my publisher ends in haggling and a reminder that I would earn more if I’d write better books. Do you know what my publisher considers better books? Literary works with a moral undertone. Cautionary tales. Novels, according to him, make society stupid, and he only agrees to publish them because there is at least some demand. But do you know what would make my work even better? If I were a man. If I’d cease writing about throbbing cocks and simply adopt one between my legs. At the very least, if I would only remove one letter from the end of my name and publish highbrow moral works as Edwin Danforth, I’d be worth something in Bretton.”

He stares at me as if seeing me for the first time, jaw slack, brow furrowed.

I continue. “Do you now see why I might be overjoyed at the chance to be respected as me? Why I’d be willing to do anything to take advantage of an opportunity that might take me out of obscurity? I’m not wealthy, William. I’ve struggled for every coin I’ve earned and I’ve never tasted fame until now. Do you know what it’s like to have a dream within reach only to have some arrogant bastard saunter in and try to take it away?”

His expression hardens.

“The contract was supposed to be mine from the start,” I say. “You’re not even supposed to be here.”

He scoffs. “You, on the other hand, were supposed to be on time.”

“I was shipwrecked. Well, my ship was caught in a storm—I don’t have to explain this to you. The truth remains that you’re clinging to my tour like a barnacle.”

“You’re wrong,” he says with a shake of his head. “This tour was supposed to be mine. I was offered one months before you even signed with Fletcher-Wilson. It wasn’t in my contract, but a verbal agreement was made. Then my release tanked in sales and the tour was proposed to you. I had to beg Mr. Fletcher in person to reconsider. It just so happened that he’d just received the telegram regarding your delay.”

I frown. “How is it possible your release tanked? Everyone has your book.”

“Because I made it happen in a matter of weeks. I scheduled interviews in every paper across the isle that I could convince to feature me. I made appearances at local bookstores. I inspired sales with my face, my persona. I sparked my book’s rise in the rankings and took that data with me when I pleaded with Mr. Fletcher for a tour. I convinced him I needed more in-person interactions to sell this book to the masses, and I was right.”

I give him a withering look. “You really are seducing your readers. With your face and your persona.”

“I am.”

“No one likes your poetry; they like your attention.”

His eyes darken. “The poetry is brilliant and beautiful. You would know if you had any taste.”

I shake my head. “I can’t believe that’s your reason for wanting this contract. To woo readers with your face rather than your words.”

“That’s not my reason.”

“Oh? Enlighten me then.”

“I don’t need to enlighten you. My reasons are none of your business.”

“What you mean is your reasons are superficial.”

He scoffs. “Hardly.”

“Then what could possibly be so important?—”

“My sister.” He says the words so fiercely that it takes me a moment to process them. Then he snaps his mouth shut, eyes widening at his own confession. His jaw tightens as he looks away from me and leans against the bookcase. “I have a sister named Cassie,” he says, his tone level despite the frustration etched over his face. “I am her sole guardian. We have a mountain of debt, but it’s all in her name. I worked several jobs to pay it down, but it wasn’t enough. The sale of A Portrait of June saved her from being taken to the workhouse, but some of our debts remain. If we don’t pay it off this year, we won’t be able to afford her college tuition.”

If he was looking for pity, I daresay he’s snagged mine. If he’s her sole guardian, their parents must have either abandoned them or died. Furthermore, it crushes my soul to think a woman interested in furthering her education might be robbed of the opportunity. “She could always get a job,” I say but am unable to hide my grimace. It’s not like I have experience with traditional employment.

And there, a well of guilt opens wide in my chest.

I may have struggled in my career and faced my share of injustice, but I can’t say I’ve lived an unprivileged life. My eldest brother funded my years at college. While I pay for my own apartment and day-to-day expenses, I always have the family estate to return to if things get bad. I’d be considered my parents’ property and would have to fall in line with their rules, meaning marriage and relinquishing my career. Still, while it may be a fate I abhor, it isn’t the worst one I could possibly have.

“I don’t want her getting a job,” William says. “She…she isn’t well. The types of employment available to a young woman without a college education are likely to prove too exhausting for her constitution. More importantly, I want her to live her dream while she has time?—”

“There you two are,” Daphne says, slinking over to us.

I blink, my mind stuck on what William was about to say. Something about having time. Time for what?

“I expected this one to be late,” Daphne says, angling her furry head toward me, “but you too, Mr. Haywood? The signing is about to start.”

Alarm ripples through me. I can’t be late after I arrived on time! I remember the book in my hands, but before I can stand on my tiptoes to try to return it to the shelf, William does it for me. Without offering him a word of thanks, I dart after Daphne as she heads for the stairs—but something catches my sleeve. I glance at my wrist, where William has lightly taken hold. The sight of his long, slender fingers wrapped around my green cuff sends my heart skittering.

“Ask me to end it,” he says, a note of pleading in his voice. “Let’s call off the bet.”

The worry on his face almost works on me.

Almost.

“You may have swayed my sympathies the slightest bit,” I say, “but I’m not calling it quits. I see now we both have reasons to fight, but yours don’t invalidate mine.”

“Let’s at least fight fair.”

“Fair? As in the sales numbers you inflated with all the efforts you made before this tour even began?”

“Yes, it’s fair. A hell of a lot more fair than our idiotic bargain. It has nothing to do with our art.”

“You act like I’m the one who bullied you into the bargain when you’re the one who spurred me on! Why are you so against this bet that you have an equal share in responsibility for?”

“It’s a matter of pride. I want to win for my efforts in sales, not seduction. Does it not rankle your own pride?”

“It does, but that’s only the least of slights against it. You know what rankles it more? That you sell more books than me. That you know my secret and had the indecency to bring it up. That you thought it would be so easy to convince me to end our bet.”

He scoffs. “Yes, because I thought you were a rational creature. If not on the outside, then at least at heart.”

“Rational. As in, you thought somewhere deep inside I’d realize I could never win a bet against you?” I give him the falsest, coldest smile I can. “Willy boy, never underestimate a writer with research on the brain.”

With that, I tug my wrist from his grip and follow Daphne down the stairs.