A Rivalry of Hearts

Chapter 12

The signing is similar in many ways to the one at Flight of Fancy. Once again, William is the far more popular author. He constantly has a line or cluster of guests, and it doesn’t take me long to glean that he attended Hyperion University for their performing arts program and was a stage actor long before he became a poet. I also learn that he is six-and-twenty years of age, which means the bastard has not only beaten me in sales, beauty, and popularity but in youth too. Though I suppose I can consider myself the wiser and more worldly. He’s not some ancient fae with several hundred years of experience under his belt. He’s three years my junior.

There are some pointed differences between this signing and the last, and they are all for the better. For one, it’s quieter, and our guests seem to have better manners. No one loiters around our tables after getting their books signed, chatting loudly and crowding the walkways. Instead, our guests politely leave to enjoy the rest of their day or peruse the shelves of the library. They keep their voices at library-appropriate volumes, even when squealing over William or catching up on old times. And, best of all, I have the pleasure of meeting three times as many readers as I did at Flight of Fancy. It seems word has spread that I’ve finally made it to the tour. I’m moved by the genuine interactions I have with those who truly love my books.

What I am not at all moved by is my table placement. I thought it would be better to be seated across from William as opposed to beside him, but with our tables facing each other from opposite ends of the dais, he’s constantly in my line of sight. He takes every opportunity to smirk at me, especially when his lines are impressively long. I meet his haughty looks with a sneer, an exaggerated smile, or by pushing the bridge of my spectacles with a subtle display of my middle finger. I’m not sure if middle fingers are a rude custom in Faerwyvae, but it’s the effort that counts.

I don’t know why he’s smirking at me after our conversation in the romance section. His popularity only confirms that I was right in refusing to let him dissolve our bargain. I should be the one smirking.

By the end of the signing, I’ve all but forgotten about William. I’m floating on air, lifted by the love of my readers, my tired wrist a tribute to all the books I signed and all the smiles I inspired. I wish I could bottle this feeling up and keep it forever. It would get me through the hardest days. Though I suppose the next best thing would be…living here. Securing that three-book contract as well as citizenship. A full immersion in the setting I’m writing in. Opportunities for more interactions with my fans. And what I wouldn’t give to see a production of The Governess and the Rake in person.

“Another great signing, my friends,” Monty says, once William and I have finished packing our leftover books in the crates. Now that the signing has ended and the sun has begun to set, casting the atrium in an even warmer honeyed glow, the library is almost empty.

“It was such a lovely signing,” Jolene says, clutching both William’s and my books to her chest. She tried to linger at William’s table for as long as she could, but when his line extended to the fountain at the center of the atrium, Daphne barked at her to move along. Thank heavens for Daphne’s crowd control. Monty spent most of his time on a smoke break. After Jolene left William’s table, she settled in at mine, finally letting me sign her copy of The Governess and the Fae. Then she insisted on serving as my assistant—not that I needed one with my nonexistent line—after which she proceeded to try to catch William’s eye.

The hour she was at my table was the one where I received the least number of smirks from him. I’m honestly surprised he hasn’t been entertaining Jolene’s infatuation. He can’t be oblivious to it. Compared to all the men and women he dazzles with that seductive grin and flirtatious banter, he treats Jolene with mere politeness. I can’t imagine he dislikes her. She’s young and sweet and gorgeous and everything men normally want in a woman.

For some reason, I feel rather smug about his lack of interest in her.

“We have two choices for how to spend our last evening in the Solar Court,” Monty says, pulling me from my thoughts. “The responsible choice is we dine in the cafeteria, retire to our rooms for the remainder of the evening, and then reconvene for our departure in the morning. Or there’s the fun choice. We get changed, we eat, we rest, and then go to a party at Somerton House.”

“I vote for sleep,” Daphne says at once. She’s perched on one of the crates, her beady little eyes looking quite heavy. It makes me wonder if pine martens are nocturnal. If so, it might be challenging to keep a diurnal schedule. Maybe that’s why she naps so often.

Jolene claps her hands together at her chest. “A party sounds lovely. This will be my last night with you, after all. I take the train back home tomorrow.” She casts a hopeful look at William.

He, however, doesn’t humor her silent request, instead giving Monty a wry look. “I know what kinds of parties happen at Somerton House.”

“Then you’ll know it’s the perfect landscape to potentially make progress in your bet.” He waggles his brows and gives me a questioning shrug. “What do you say, Miss Danforth?”

I’ve been so elated about today’s signing that I haven’t thought about the bet in hours. My lungs tighten, either in anxiety or excitement. This could be my first opportunity to begin the research I’ve resolved to do. My first opportunity to earn a point against William. While I can’t be certain he didn’t earn one last night, Jolene’s frustration when she returned to our dorm just before midnight was a promising sign that he didn’t. Apparently, she strolled the hall outside his room for two whole hours and he never once came out. Only Monty left their shared room, and he informed her that William had retired early.

My gaze flashes to my opponent. His eyes widen and he gives a subtle shake of his head. He’s obviously trying to warn me to reject Monty’s proposal, but it might as well be bait. If he doesn’t want me to go to this party, then I definitely want to.

“You’re right, Jolene,” I say, lifting my chin. “A party does sound lovely.”

Somerton House isa large private residence in the city, nestled between other grand manors that line the street, just a few blocks away from the university. We pass through the front gate and approach the door. Strains of muffled music—a familiar opera—emanate from inside.

I exchange an excited look with Jolene, whose arm is linked through mine. I’ve never been to a house party before, only a few public balls and the occasional garden party at my family home. Even in college, I refrained from much socializing and spent my waking hours either studying or writing. I’m not even sure Bretton Ladies College had an active nightlife considering how strictly our activities and curfews were enforced.

Monty takes a drag from his cigarillo and raps the hinged door knocker upon its brass plate. Daphne stayed behind, so we’re just a party of four. I shudder, but it’s more from anticipation than cold. Night has fallen, but the air remains warm. Not stifling like it was when we first arrived at the station, but warm enough that I’ve changed out of my long-sleeved dress to a silk evening gown with lace cap sleeves, a loose unstructured waist, and a low square neckline. It’s one of the most modern and fashionable gowns I own, its style influenced by the lighter, gauzier fae fashions that have become more prevalent, even in Bretton.

Meanwhile, Jolene wears a scarlet ballgown that makes me wonder if I’m underdressed. On the other hand, William and Monty are outfitted in similar casual slacks and open-collar shirts like they wore when we arrived in the Solar Court, so perhaps it’s me and Jolene who are overdressed. After all, the two males seem far keener on what Somerton House is all about.

A butler opens the front door. He and Monty exchange a few whispered words, and the butler bows for us to enter. The opera I heard from outside is even louder now, and as we make our way down the hall and into the main foyer, I discover the source. A female fae with glittering golden skin and bronze iridescent hair stands at the center of the room, her impressive soprano filling the air with a haunting melody of love and loss. My first instinct is to shrink back, fearing we’ve disrupted her performance with our sudden arrival, but a glance around the room banishes my worries. While many stand and watch the vocalist, there are several others who chat in groups, paying the singer very little heed. Still others lounge on chairs, divans, or against the wall, notebooks and graphite in hand as they sketch the female. Smoke fills the air, as does the scent of liquor. This is nothing like the elegant house party I imagined, with a formal dinner, dancing, and separate rooms for the men and women to congregate. Here everyone mingles freely and the atmosphere is unrestrained.

When William said he knew what kinds of parties happen here, perhaps this is what he meant. He didn’t think my delicate human sensibilities could handle such frivolity.

“William Haywood, is that really you?” A human male with a bushy mustache, a pipe, and neatly combed black hair strides to us from across the room. He looks to be about ten years my senior and is dressed in nothing more than a burgundy silk robe. He claps William on the shoulder and speaks through the pipe between his lips. “I heard you were in town but never thought I’d see you at Somerton House any time soon. Are these your friends?”

The man appraises me and Jolene with appreciative looks, then turns his attention to Monty. He removes the pipe from his mouth and sniffs the air. Then, arching a brow at Monty’s cigarillo, he reaches into the breast pocket of his robe and extracts a small lavender-scented sachet. With a wink, he hands it to Monty. “Try Moonpetal. Much more relaxing.”

Monty’s eyes brighten. “Cheers to that.” Without waiting for a formal introduction, he wanders off, a skip in his step.

William rolls his eyes, but the man doesn’t seem at all offended. “Grayson, that was Monty, Junior Publicist at Fletcher-Wilson, my publisher. This is Miss Edwina Danforth, fellow author, and her friend, Miss Jolene Vaughn. Miss Danforth, Miss Vaughn, this is Grayson Somerton, our host and my former mentor.”

“In poetry?” Jolene asks, her expression alight with interest.

Mr. Somerton frowns. “No, in acting. I hosted many performances here and William was one of our brightest stars.” To William he says, “I was surprised to hear you made a name for yourself on the page rather than the stage.”

William’s throat bobs, then a lopsided grin curves his lips. “What is a blank page if not another kind of stage?”

Mr. Somerton takes a puff from his pipe, giving him a meager smile yet making no further comment. He turns to me and Jolene. “Since this is your first time at Somerton House, allow me to acquaint you. Here, in the foyer, is what we call the music hall. The parlor to the left is set with easels. The study hosts my finest liquor. In the library you’ll find a makeshift stage for spoken-word performances. Upstairs in the south wing, you’ll find rooms dedicated to pottery, painting, pianoforte, harp. In the north wing?—”

“They’re not going to the north wing,” William cuts in.

I glance between William and Mr. Somerton. “Why? What’s in the north wing?”

Mr. Somerton busies himself with his pipe and refuses to meet my gaze.

William looks me straight in the eyes. “Do not go to the north wing. I’m warning you.”

How has he yet to learn? Telling me not to do something is the surest way to get me to do it. I curtsy for Mr. Somerton. “Thank you for being such a gracious host. I look forward to enjoying your lovely home.”

He gives a deep nod and I tug Jolene with me toward a wide curving staircase.

“Where are you going?” William’s tone is edged with warning.

I cast a coy look over my shoulder. “To the north wing, of course.”