Chapter 6
6
My room is five stories up. There’s no elevator.
Well, at least the punishing climb is Elytheum appropriate. They don’t have elevators in Kethryn’s court, either.
I huff up the interminable steps with my small suitcase, which I collected from my car after leaving dinner. Notwithstanding the presence of one particular guest, our evening meal was delightful—especially dessert. In one of Elytheum’s cutest scenes, Val escorts Kethryn into the shadowy city where he grew up. They have “night cakes” from the neighborhood’s street stand. Every cake is different, and the constellation of sugared “stars” on the dark mousse of the delicacy “predict the fortune” of the eater.
What did I find when the servers deposited dessert in front of us? Rich chocolate mousse, decorated with smatterings of silvery sugar. Exactly how I envisioned the scene.
Me and everyone else, obviously. Gasps went up from my dinner companions. Congratulations to the chef, who I’m starting to feel certain has read Elytheum. I mean, wow.
The long communal tables permitted small talk with other participants, and over night cakes, I met some of my cohabitants of Kethryn’s court. Erica with her daughter Nora, who shared their fandom when Nora went to college. Literary agent Nia, looking to remember what she loves in fiction. William, in his sixties, whose coworkers in insurance got him enthusiastically into the series. “I haven’t slept in a dorm in forty years!” he proclaimed.
Their company, not to mention the chocolate mousse, distracted me well enough from the presence of one Lord Daniels, even if, watching him carouse with demonesses, I imagined potential fortunes his night cake could have given him. You will fall down the college’s grandest stone steps and split the seams of your new costume pants. You will discover an allergy to chocolate mousse causing horrific diarrhea.
Mounting the stairs to my suite, I no longer have the relief of distraction. With every heavy stomp, I let the pain in my legs push out the frustration of Scott.
The stairway is shadowy in the Elytheum- inappropriate electric lighting. Finally, I reach the uppermost landing, where I find the hallway of the college dorm I’ll call my fantastical home for the next week.
Only when I click open my door with the Demoniaca-painted key card do I realize Amelia gave me my room as a kindness, not for unwanted cardio. It’s a corner suite in a literal Gothic tower, with windows overlooking the whole college. While night has left the campus in darkness, the pathways are lit up, illumination crossing the quiet expanse. I see people walking with friends carrying ice cream from town, grad students returning home from the day’s research, couples holding hands.
It’s idyllic. Magical, even.
I pull my shoes off in the doorway, finally relaxing. I leave my cloak on. For the first moment since I spied Scott downstairs, he feels wondrously far from here.
I explore my suite, which is nothing like my own college experience—I commuted to Oklahoma City University from my parents’ house nearby. Everything here feels new in an exciting way. Within the white walls, standard dorm pieces furnish the rooms sparsely. Past the frankly small and odd-shaped common room, I find two bedrooms. Whoever my roommate is, if I have one, they haven’t arrived.
What leaves me marveling, however, are the Elytheum details. The organizers have enlivened the College of Hollisboro suite with flourishes I cannot wait to examine. Like, I do not know where I will start. The elaborately framed Elytheum landscape print over our couch, fan art in the guise of the work of a courtly painter? The sigils over the doors, instantly recognizable emblems of Kethryn’s reign? The candelabra on the coffee table, surrounded with designer chocolates? On second thought, I do know where I’ll start.
Amelia and the organizers have done everything to make the dorm feel like I’m living in the very finest of Elytheum. It’s not just idyllic. It’s epic. Ironic, perhaps, to find myself enchanted by a college dorm room when I have my own apartment, with views of New York City and furniture I chose myself—or maybe just the magic of the Experience.
I pick one of the bedrooms, where I hoist my suitcase onto the ebony coverlet, which manages to make my collegiate sleeping situation look opulent. I unpack my minimal luggage into the equally small wardrobe.
Finished, I don’t even hesitate. I know exactly what I’m doing on my first night in my fantasy.
I’m going to fucking read .
I’m ready to start Elytheum Courts over with the perfect scenery surrounding me. The Shattered Court opens the series majestically with Kethryn, the youngest daughter of the royal family, surviving an invasion of the palace—the only survivor. Under the protection of an obsidian-eyed fae, she is crowned the new queen, fearing for her safety while investigating the plot against her family.
Perfection!
I’ve owned numerous copies in the past decade. The one I packed with me is my favorite, a special edition, the Wright & Camby’s exclusive with full-color fan art on the inside of the covers and spicy extra scenes. In the quiet of my room, I lift the heavy volume gently from my suitcase and head into the weirdly shaped common room, where I curl up in my cloak on the couch.
I light the violet candle on the coffee table. I pop one of the designer chocolates.
I open the book. Page one .
With the fabulous day I’ve had in the real world, it should be freeing, immersing myself in Elytheum. In passages I could recite anywhere, anytime. Kethryn wore black on the day of her coronation…
No, it is freeing! Instead of stuck on the highway in my sister’s Prius, caught in the horrible repeating memory of getting dumped in my office’s elevator lobby like some demented time-loop movie, I’m here. Instead of reading on Jordan’s couch while he plays video games—feeling quietly, exasperatingly stuck—I’m here . Cozy, wrapped in the candle’s sweet leather scent, free from judgment.
I keep reading.
Kethryn wore black on the day of her coronation. The wrong choice…
Instead of Jordan nodding off while I keep the nightstand light on, wishing I wasn’t engrossed in the manuscript Scott spent the day’s meeting championing, I’m here.
Instead of watching Scott present using only his ever-present notebook, the only person in our meetings without a laptop, I’m…
The wrong choice…
God damnit. Yes, I’m here, but my mind won’t pull me into the pages. I’m stuck on Scott.
Just like my compulsion to start my favorite series over again right after finishing it, endings always make me think about beginnings. My first real interaction with Scott, the real start of our delightful relationship, occurred in the nondescript hallway of one of our colleagues’ apartments. How fitting—a decidedly uninteresting location.
I was heading to the birthday party of Charlene in Sales, who I do not particularly like. Her friends were hosting, not even Charlene herself. The only reason I’d even gotten invited was office chatter about the event. It would be awkward for Charlene not to invite everyone, including Jennifer Worth in Marketing.
I knew I had to make an appearance in order to not look like the office jerk who didn’t come. However, I really didn’t want to. I would not consider myself a comfortable partier under even ideal conditions, and an event in a random apartment, hosted by people I’d never met and would never meet again, were not ideal conditions.
Nevertheless, I went.
I hung out near people, pretending I was hanging out with them. I wished Charlene’s friend had pets with whom I could distract myself. When finally I felt I could make my escape, having served my partying sentence, I left.
Absconding from Charlene’s friend’s apartment, I found him in the hallway.
Scott Daniels, I learned earlier in the week. The new hire. Like mine, his invitation to Charlene’s party was no doubt out of office obligation.
And like me, he did not appear in the partying mood. He was approaching the door while I was leaving.
“Any signs of slowing down?” he asked me, nodding at the door in indication of the party, which was very much not slowing down.
“You…like to make an entrance only after a party has slowed down?” I couldn’t help clarifying.
He had the good grace to smile, although not without restraint. Like the danger of making small talk with Jennifer Worth might pull him into the pit of partying. “I was on the fence about coming at all,” he replied. “I’m hoping to make a friendly appearance when things are mostly wrapping up.”
“We’ll, you’re in luck…” I said with the careful bedside manner needed to break terrible news, “if you think tequila shots mean a party is slowing down.”
He rubbed a hand down his face. “Maybe your departure will start a party exodus?” he ventured.
Having spent the past exactly one hour and fifteen minutes standing awkwardly by a boarded-up fireplace, nursing a Sprite and hoarding a mediocre spread of cheese cubes, I laughed a little bitterly. “I’m guessing my exit will only spur the party on harder.”
He eyed me then. Curiosity won out in him. “Why’s that?”
I felt Scott taking in my corduroy dress and black tights. I knew what he saw—the quiet girl in every class. Or the nerd with irritating niche enthusiasm.
Why not own it? I remember asking myself spitefully. “I’m a perennial party pooper,” I confessed. “A California-king-sized wet blanket.”
He laughed—and it was joyous and free of judgment. Like we were in on the same joke. And I guess I dared look closer. He wasn’t wearing anything much different from the office—unshowy dress shirt, casual gray blazer—yet he carried the crispness off with an understated confidence. It isn’t strictly possible for someone to look mild mannered—yet, he did. With his narrow nose, his inquisitive eyes, glasses that suited him.
“Well, what are you doing out here? You have to go back in there,” he encouraged me. “Absolutely decimate the vibe. Oversharing, weird family anecdotes. Change the radio to the Sirius Met Opera station. Pick some fights.”
It was my turn to laugh. “Only people who listen to the Sirius Met Opera radio station even know what it is,” I pointed out, welcoming without shame the membership in this group my statement implied.
“In case it wasn’t abundantly clear,” he replied, “I, too, am unfun.”
It pushed me over from curious into amused. “I don’t think so,” I said.
In fact, I was feeling the inklings of something like hope. Amelia was my only real work friend, and I wouldn’t mind making another in the promising new guy.
“But I mean,” I went on, “we could test it? We could go in there, team up, and find out just how quickly two uncool people can shut down a party.”
My new compatriot eyed the door, weighing my proposal. I liked the hint of mischief in his eyes. In his whole nerdy, professional vibe, it stood out intriguingly. The first drop of watercolor paint into clear water.
Emboldened, I continued. “Or we could leave and get a drink. There’s a bar across the street. Get to know each other.”
He hesitated. I waited, proud of myself. I’m not usually one for putting myself out there, which was probably why Amelia was my only work friend. I felt unexpectedly good. Like Scott Daniels could be the start of something. I’d managed to conjure hope, my favorite magic, in the hallways of—
“No thanks,” he replied curtly.
Startled, I blinked. The crestfallen hurt was delayed, not hitting me until moments later, when I was prepared to hide the reaction under casual deference.
“Oh,” I replied. What kind of person says no to friendly drinks with a colleague? “I’m…just being friendly,” I clarified, momentarily horrified by the thought he interpreted my invite romantically.
Scott retreated several steps, putting his hands in his pockets with square-shouldered defensiveness. He looked like he positively wished for the reprieve of Charlene’s party, from which “Turn Down for What” was emanating powerfully. “I know,” he said. “I’m just not interested.”
Oof . Okay, while it wasn’t like I knew Scott Daniels or was entitled to the pleasure—debatable now—of his company, I was a little shocked by the dismissal. Resentfulness flickered into my voice when I replied.
“You know what, you were right,” I said. “You are unfun.”
Scott eyed me, but he said nothing. Of course not—he’d gotten what he wanted. The end of this conversation with shy, nerdy, irritating Jennifer Worth.
We went our separate ways, him presumably into Charlene’s party, and me home, quietly hurting from his rejection. I was embarrassed. It was, I decided, sort of like asking someone out and getting rejected…except worse. Attraction wasn’t part of it. Nor were logistics, or commitment issues, or previous relationships. Just me!
Offering only the most casual of kindnesses, I still was someone Scott Daniels didn’t want to know. I’d just gotten friend rejected, and I was not a fan.
I close The Shattered Court , finally surrendering to distraction. Scott, unsurprisingly, quickly changed into the worst part of my workdays. Days stretched into a year of dodged eye contact, visible frowns whenever we’re the first people in a conference room, and the occasional argument each of us absolutely knows isn’t really about the virtues of one font placement or other.
The worst part is, I can’t quite forget our conversation in Charlene’s unremarkable hallway. It was…fun. We could have been friends, instead of the wretched game we play now.
Whatever. Ignoring flaws, or even romanticizing them, has only left me alone and embarrassed, again and again. Hope is magic—and magic is dangerous.
When I hear footsteps in the hallway, I remember I’m not alone here. In fact, people who love what I love surround me. My people.
I jump up from the couch, eager for company, or even just distraction. Perhaps it’s my roommate, looking for our suite. Or it’s another hallmate—someone I could invite over, getting to know my fellow fans, fulfilling one more college experience I never had. Hanging out until midnight, chatting about our favorite fandom. I would gladly share my artisanal chocolates in exchange for good Elytheum -centric conversation.
Okay, maybe not gladly . I would share, however.
Or I could go outside. I could meet someone new in an unfamiliar hallway. I could backspace over my memory of my first conversation with Scott, like Heather Winters does if characters’ dialogue isn’t working or interactions feel forced. I could rewrite the start of my failed relationship with…I don’t know who.
Emboldened, recklessly hopeful, I open the door, and—
No one is in my hallway. Whoever passed my suite has gone into their own for the night.
Of course. I close my door, feeling foolish. I haven’t just spent the day running from reality. I’ve spent the day chasing fantasy. Right now I feel like it’s because fantasy never comes to me.
Returning to my suite, I remind myself how enchanting I found its perfectly rendered details. While the ember of my enthusiasm is weak, it’s not extinguished. However, I know I won’t find happy refuge in the pages of Elytheum. I need some sleep.
I head into my bedroom, telling myself it’s okay if I don’t feel like I’m living a fantasy just yet. I have the whole week here.
Tomorrow , I promise, your life will change .