A Rivalry of Hearts

Chapter 30

Iwake to a startled yelp from nearby. Early morning light pours through the wall of windows as I shift on the divan I slept upon and roll onto my side. After locating my spectacles beside my pillow, I visually seek the source of commotion. I locate it near the gilded hearth. Monty sprawls crookedly in one of the wingback chairs while Daphne stands frozen on all fours upon his chest, her curved back arched even higher than it usually is.

With another yelp, she leaps off his chest onto the floor. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

Monty frowns, eyelids heavy. He rubs his temples, and I catch signs of cuts and bruises on his knuckles. Just what did he get up to last night? With a yawn, he says, “What were you thinking it looks like, Daph?”

She skitters back a few steps. Her normally even voice is pitched high. “We slept together!”

Monty snorts a laugh, straightening in his chair with a stretch. He’s still fully clothed, though his waistcoat is open, as is his collar. “You fell asleep on my chest. That’s not the same thing as sleeping together.”

“We spent the night on the same piece of furniture with our bodies touching,” she says. “This is humiliating.”

“You do know how sleeping together in the carnal sense works, right?”

“Of course I know how it works. I’m centuries older than you. I’ve been through more mating seasons than you’ve been alive.”

I’m surprised to hear about her age. She’s centuries old after all. Pushing back my borrowed blankets, I swing my legs over the side of the divan and rise to my feet. As embarrassing as this moment must be for Daphne, maybe she’d feel better if I acted as a mediator. Though her reaction is rather amusing, I can at least relate to her embarrassment. I’ve been there, after all, when I woke up with William in my room. I could at least stand beside her and voice my support. Or remind them that they aren’t alone and might wake up Zane and William, the former of whom dozes in their bed while the latter is nestled on a couch in a quiet corner of the apartment.

I cross the floor toward the bickering pair. The onyx floors are chilly beneath my bare feet, and I tug my robe tighter around my chemise.

“I’m not talking about unseelie mating,” Monty says. “I’m talking about sex.”

“I know about seelie sex,” Daphne hisses back. “I read books.”

He levels a wry look at her. “Well, you must also know I have a type. Four legs and furry isn’t it.”

Daphne gasps, visibly shrinking back as if his words struck her like a blow. When she speaks next, her voice is small, quavering. “I’m not some pet, Monty. I’m a person.”

I halt in place. The hurt in her tone is so palpable it makes my chest ache. While Daphne’s humiliation seemed silly—albeit relatable—at first, a deeper layer of comprehension dawns. This isn’t about Daphne misunderstanding sex. It’s that she sees Monty as more than her colleague. More than just another human. She sees him as a man. She’s aware of him in the way I’m aware of William. Meanwhile, Monty only sees her as a pine marten. He dismissed her as not his type without considering he only knows one side of her. Her unseelie side.

Monty’s expression falls, as if he realizes it too. His tone takes on a gentler quality. “No, of course you’re a person. I know that.”

“I have another body.”

“I’m sure you do.” Tenderness washes over his face, and for the briefest moment I think Monty might recover from his blunder all on his own. He opens his mouth but seems to think better about whatever he was going to say. The softness leaves his face, replaced with a cold, taunting smirk. He shifts in his chair, taking on a lazy posture. “You’re making too big a deal out of this, Daffy. We didn’t sleep together in any way that counts. It meant nothing.”

A long stretch of silence follows. Finally, Daphne bites out, “You’re an ass.” She scampers away and out of sight faster than I can react.

“And I was sleeping so well, too,” Monty mutters under his breath as he rises from his chair, cigarillo case in hand. He offers me a nod as he notices my presence.

I give him a withering look. “You were insensitive on purpose just now. Why?”

He removes a cigarillo from his case and tucks it behind his ear. Everything from his motions to his expression and his voice seems worn. Tired. “I told you once before, Miss Danforth,” he says on a slow exhale as he heads for the elevator. “I’m no hero.”

Thankfully,the argument doesn’t inflict any lasting damage on our party. Soon Daphne returns from wherever she went to hide, and while she doesn’t go out of her way to talk to Monty more than usual, she doesn’t outright ignore him either. Neither William nor Zane mentions anything to suggest they overheard the argument, which is a relief for Daphne’s sake.

If anyone is acting strange, it’s me and William. I can’t stop the fluttering in my chest every time he meets my eyes. Which is constantly. Across the room when he first woke up this morning. At the dining table when we gathered for lunch. And now, as he and I occupy the two chairs near the unlit hearth. I’m jotting story ideas in my notebook while he reads today’s broadsheets. Time and again, as he turns a page, he glances at me over the top of his paper, his lips curling at one corner. The mere sight of those lips reminds me of how they felt on my skin, and how his fingers felt inside me. The way he pulled me against him and whispered those words in my ear.

Please use me soon. I need more of you.

I find myself smiling back without any reservations, and the same giddy feeling from last night sweeps through me. Over and over I remind myself that I can’t assign any meaning to this fluttery, melty feeling.

Try telling that to my heart.

By afternoon, a messenger arrives with mail. “These are all for you,” Zane says, handing them over to Monty.

“Ah.” He accepts them, thumbing through an assortment of envelopes. “I sent a telegram to Fletcher-Wilson about our change of accommodations, so these must have been forwarded from the hotel.”

Monty approaches me and William, handing us each an envelope. William stiffens, abandoning his chair and broadsheets to stand by the wall of windows.

I turn my attention to my own envelope. It’s addressed from Bullard and Sons, my publisher in Bretton, and is postmarked from the week I left for Faerwyvae. It must have taken quite the journey to reach me, considering I have no permanent address in Faerwyvae.

My heart sinks to my stomach as soon as I read the first sentence of the letter inside.

Miss Danforth,

We regret to inform you that Bullard and Sons has decided to terminate your contract on all previously published works and will not accept any new manuscript submissions henceforth. Your works are now out of print and surplus stock will be destroyed.

We wish you the best in your endeavors elsewhere,

John Bullard

I read the letter several times over, my heart plummeting deeper and deeper with every refrain. My contract terms were never favorable to begin with. Bullard and Sons wouldn’t agree to publish me without allowing them to terminate my contract at will. And while Mr. Bullard has never made a secret of how much he frowns upon my genre, he’s never given me a reason to believe he’d want to terminate my contract any time soon. He’s always accepted new submissions from me. After haggling over royalties, yes, but?—

My breath catches.

Mr. Bullard accepted new submissions…until The Governess and the Fae. He’d made his disdain for the fae clear then, and it opened my eyes to the prevalent hostilities in Bretton regarding Faerwyvae. Could it be…

Daphne hops onto the arm of my chair, and I allow her to read my letter. “Oh dear.”

“Do you think it’s because I came here?” I ask. “Because of the tensions between Bretton and Faerwyvae?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” she says.

With a heavy sigh, I lean back in my chair, eyes unfocused. I never considered coming here could compromise my career back home. Mr. Bullard gave me no warning that something like this could happen. Once I saw how many of my readers had purchased my imported titles from Bretton, I figured my popularity here could only benefit my publisher there.

But I gave him too much credit. Of course a man who refused to offer me higher royalties unless I published under a male pseudonym would be so petty as to punish me for my dealings with the fae.

Daphne lays a consoling paw on my shoulder. “It can’t be all bad. You have your rights back now. You could find another publisher for your previous works.”

She’s right, I suppose, though I’m not so sure I’ll find that opportunity back home. It was already hard enough finding a publisher who’d take me in the first place, and I wouldn’t be surprised if others hold the same prejudice against the fae. Which means Faerwyvae is my best hope. I don’t have many options, considering Fletcher-Wilson is the primary publisher of fiction here, but Mr. Fletcher might be open to acquiring my now-out-of-print titles. Yet the publishing industry takes time. Time I didn’t realize was slipping away. My income is effectively gone, leaving me with no way to pay for my apartment in Bretton. Sure, I have my advance from The Governess and the Fae, plus whatever royalties I’ll eventually make once I earn out said advance, but the exchange rate between Bretton and Faerwyvae is laughable. The money I make here is better spent here.

I must make this my home.

I need that contract.

“Fuck.” William’s outburst has me turning in my seat. He stands at the wall of windows, leaning against the wide black frame between two of the enormous panes, head thrown back.

Looks like I’m not the only one who received bad news.

Daphne leaps from my chair to settle on the sill beside him. “What happened?”

On tentative feet, I follow, curious to hear his answer.

He lowers his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. “My sister’s scholarship application was rejected. I’ll have to fund her college tuition in full, and the payment is due next month.”

“What about other schools?” Daphne asks.

“The Borealis School of the Arts is the only college she was accepted into.”

The pine marten perks up. “That’s here in town. You could talk to someone?—”

“I’ve talked to them already. The scholarship was our last chance.”

I stop a few feet away as William’s eyes flick to mine. The gleam in his irises is gone. He has no taunting smirk for me. No wink. No reminder of what we did in the elevator last night. There’s something more like an apology in his face.

And I know what he’s apologizing for.

I feel it down to my bones. The reminder that—despite everything we’ve done together and how we’ve grown closer—we’re still rivals. Both of us are equally desperate for the publishing contract, and if one of us wins, the other loses. Even if the runner-up is offered a lesser contract, only one of us will be given what we truly need.

Either William can afford to put his sister through college.

Or I have a career and a place to live.

Neither of us can wait. Neither of us have time.

William’s tuition payment is due in a matter of weeks.

Meanwhile, I have nothing to go home to if this tour ends without a new contract, without Mr. Fletcher advocating for my citizenship. I no longer have a publisher in Bretton. I can no longer afford my apartment. My only option will be to tuck tail and return to my family estate. I won’t be the expendable middle daughter anymore if I’m relying on my parents for financial support and a roof over my head. I’ll have to submit to their wishes at last. Marry. Give up my career to be a traditional wife.

These thoughts don’t spark my competitive nature like they would have before.

Instead, they carve a splinter in my heart.