Chapter 7
7
I wake up under my obsidian coverlet, my heart light for one wonderful moment.
Then I remember breaking up with Jordan and running into Scott here. It’s one of the worst feelings in the world— remembering what’s going wrong in your life. There is almost an inexplicable obligation in it, like you haven’t paid your debt of distress just yet. It’s like when someone emails you “following up” on something you really don’t want to do, except the email comes from your short-term memory into the inbox of your soul, and it has one of those horrid “high priority” exclamation marks on it.
Just following up!
No, damnit. My heart hits “delete.”
I push sadness from my sunlit morning, refusing to mourn the end of yet another waste-of-time relationship. Discouraging though my romantic history is, the breakup brought me here , where I have the chance to win the date of my dreams with the man of my fantasies.
Only if I can win the scavenger hunt, though. I’m determined to find one of the clues by the end of the day.
My room is no less magical in the morning light. I’m convinced sunlight in small towns just hits different. It filters in the windows of the suite, lending everything gentle crispness. The warmth has even started to soften the wax of my Elytheum-themed candle, hinting the room with the perfect sweet, smoky-leathery scent.
Carrying my toiletries, I head into the hallway, which I’m unsurprised to find empty. It is presently six in the morning. I woke up early because I didn’t want to miss a minute of clue-searching time, and because I’ve always been an early-to-bed, early-to-rise girl. I’m eager and a little nervous for breakfast, which starts in one hour.
The nervousness is mostly due to the scavenger hunt. I wouldn’t consider myself very competitive. Okay, no, I’m very not competitive. Like, losing-card-games-on-purpose-so-I-can-enjoy-watching-my-friends-play-without-stress levels of not competitive, or hands-getting-sweaty-when-Jordan-challenged-me-to-Mario-Kart levels of not competitive.
Nevertheless, I really want the dream date. Which means going head-to-head with my fellow Experience participants. They’re probably more confident, more resourceful, less…ordinary. Maybe even— gasp —more knowledgeable Elytheum Courts fans. In the ultimate Elytheum-off, I’m competing with many of the only people in the world I would really consider my competition.
So, yeah, some nervousness.
And my eagerness?
Winters is indulgent with descriptions of food in the Elytheum Courts series. In interviews and newsletters, she’s explained how food connects us and stands out in our memories of our favorite places, whether home or away, and she wants her writing to reflect the same richness.
While I’m certain every fan’s heart holds a different dream repast, I suspect four little words have started to circle in everyone’s heads. Western Woods puff pancakes . The signature comfort food of the main setting of the second installment in the series.
I reach the communal bathroom, ready to welcome another advantage of my early wake-up. I’m excited to meet new fans and friends, but I very much don’t feel the need to make introductions while naked, heading for the shower. I hold my robe tight while I enter, expecting morning solitude.
Instead—
Of course the restroom isn’t empty. Of course the only person in here isn’t even a future friend. Certainly not a fan.
Of course, the only other person up at six a.m. in a college dorm is Scott.
I contemplate retreating. When Kethryn, captured in the Realms Past, competed in deathly gladiatorial games with unspeakable monsters, she survived one challenge entirely using stealth instead of hurling herself into the fray. I could go the queenly route of slipping out and heading downstairs to use one of the showers on another floor.
Then Scott’s eyes—without his glasses post-shower—swivel to me in the mirror.
Now I refuse to give him the satisfaction of my fleeing anywhere. Even from a slightly dark and mildewy communal college bathroom! Stealth is queenly. Cowardice is not.
I stride in, holding my chin high. Scott’s gaze follows me the length of my short walk to the mirror next to his. He is unfortunately wearing only his towel. He is unfortunately wet.
Whatever! Who cares!
He’s not here , I counsel myself sternly. Not to me. He is like a spider in a corner of the cavernous, shadowy Great Hall—best to pretend it’s not there.
I unzip my toiletries bag. It happens I have very strong muscles of ignoring—enjoying reading in public while living in New York City develops them. I exercise my herculean powers pretending I’m the only person in the room. Just Jennifer!
Unfortunately, however, the novelty of post-shower Scott Daniels offers me no mercy. Regrettably, he smells good. Even from here, crisp soap combines with sweat into something assaultive on my soul’s defenses. Disastrously, he has a nice chest, no doubt earned from working out.
Who cares! Stay strong, Jennifer.
I won’t let such details distract me. I’m certain Val smells good after a shower as well. The idea makes me smile, which Scott catches.
“Happy to see me?” he asks.
I deign to spare him a look. “Hardly,” I reply. “I was thinking about Val.”
He grimaces. “Right,” he murmurs. “He’s your…book boyfriend, isn’t he?”
The pointed use of the terminology condemns me to pink cheeks, not that the dewy sheen the shower has given his abs wasn’t doing that already. He’s definitely overheard my gushing conversations with coworkers, then. Whatever—Scott Daniels doesn’t deserve my embarrassment. “Yes,” I reply resolutely. “He is.”
Undaunted, Scott presses on. “Made any progress on the clues, then?”
“Do you plan to always be in the bathroom at this time?” I reply evasively, determined to retake the upper hand. “It’d be best if I know what times to avoid it and, by extension, you.”
He pauses, shaving razor in hand, and turns, eyeing me incredulously. Water beads down his chest— nope. I divert my gaze.
In fact, gaze is excessive. Winters would never write gaze when she meant glance . My glance.
“Sharing my showering habits feels personal , Jennifer,” he reminds me. I refuse to even entertain the idea of humor or playfulness entering his voice. We’re defenders clashing in combat. Enemies from sworn opposing courts. Nothing more. “Probably safer if you just ask for a room change. Amelia will do anything for you,” he recommends.
I scowl. I loathe the idea of giving up my corner suite with its stunning views. Elytheum decorations or not, I am still living in a college dorm for a week. I don’t know if any quantity of candles could make me enjoy lesser lodgings.
“I suppose I can subject myself to this sight if I must,” I say, gesturing to his chest.
Scott’s lips pull into a dangerous smirk. Is he kidding with that? Since when does overly meticulous Scott smirk? “How will you survive?” he replies, heartlessly droll.
Fighting self-consciousness, I face my reflection in the mirror. It’s the damn shower’s fault.
I’m not letting embarrassment silence me, however. If I’m going to win the scavenger hunt, if I’m going to compete with equally determined fans, I’m going to need to keep my composure and face challenges head-on. “You’re not usually this full of yourself,” I comment.
I didn’t intend the implied compliment hiding in my retort, although I’m forced to recognize it’s not inaccurate. Judgmental though Scott Daniels may be—and definitely willing to pick inane fights over font placement—the man I’ve gotten to know in our offices is frustratingly graceful with creative criticism and an irritatingly good listener to our supervisors’ suggestions.
His bravado seems to momentarily flicker, the pressed-and-polished guy I know from work returning, until—
“Well, I’m not usually shirtless in front of you,” he points out.
I clench my jaw, refusing to concede I walked right into the comment. “Misfortune upon misfortune,” I manage. Recognizing I’ve done myself no favors in the conversation, I grab my toothbrush and start hurriedly to brush.
Scott says nothing. Deciding he’s wreaked enough damage on my morning, I would guess. He packs up his toiletries and heads for the door, where, like he’s warring with himself, he pauses.
“We’re not friends,” he starts.
You made sure of that , I don’t point out to him. “Understatement,” I hurry to agree around my toothbrush. Understatement .
Scott continues, undeterred, like fae cadets undertaking the war magistry’s fearsome gauntlet. “Still. It was rough watching you get dumped,” he says. “Are you holding up okay?”
My cheeks flame. Wow—he’s managed to unlock even more new ways of upsetting a morning I was supposed to be enjoying. I wish we could return to sniping over me eyeing his chest. Except, no I don’t. I spit into the sink, pretending I’m expectorating the future memory of this conversation. “I did the dumping,” I inform Scott.
In the mirror, I notice his eyebrows join. “I’m curious what exactly Jordan was alluding to when he said it’s cool how much you’re into in the bedroom, but naturally that would be such a personal question.”
I fumble my toothpaste so violently it clatters to the tile floor.
His eyes sparkle with laughter. “Clearly, I heard everything ,” he says victoriously.
Fine, so me dumping Jordan was as fantastical as fae courts or dark magic incantations . “Okay,” I amend, desperately fighting to keep my cool, “it may have been silent and only in my heart, but believe me, internally I had dumped him long ago.”
I expect the doubtfulness I’ve come to consider one of Scott’s main qualities when interacting with me. Instead, I’m surprised when only patience greets me on his keen features. “Why didn’t you go through with it?” he inquires.
Having not exactly woken up planning on analyzing my relationship issues with my least favorite coworker, I frown. “Because I’m a coward. I don’t know,” I reply.
“I doubt that’s true,” Scott says.
The certainty, the conviction in his voice makes me find his eyes. I’m not ready for the measured intensity in them. I pin his stare, desperate to wrestle it into compliance. “Okay,” I say—half-defiant, half-curious, and wholly disliking the combination. “Since we’re so very close, tell me why you think I didn’t?”
Scott’s expression closes up. “You’re right,” he replies, regaining a little of the combativeness I anticipated. “I’ve overstepped. Too much temerity, I suppose.”
I recall with irritation his focus on Kethryn’s welcome speech. Of course he remembers the scavenger hunt announcement perfectly. I say nothing, and he leaves the room, his words hanging in the echo of the door clicking closed.
Too much temerity . Honestly, the comment was a gift. Scott has just reminded me he’s my competitor. Yes, Scott, you demonstrated very impressive temerity. However, you get no points for aptitude. Anyway, who even needs temerity in a scavenger hunt—
Wait .
I noticed immediately, during dinner, the uncharacteristic oddity of Kethryn’s phrasing. It doesn’t entirely make sense in context, and it doesn’t read like Winters’s eloquent, understated dialogue.
Of course it doesn’t. After all, it’s not just dialogue .
Like I’ve just figured out a plot twist, I’m instantly convinced my deduction is right.
Kethryn has already given us the first clue. At dinner. And she’s given it in a form Elytheum fans would know. In Winters’s world, the fae love riddles, word games, verbal evasions. Like…anagrams.
Inspired, I hop into the shower Scott just vacated and turn on the water. In the fog steamed onto the door, I write the letters. Secrecy, loyalty, temerity, aptitude.
SLTA .
I hear Val’s voice in my head, the same way Kethryn did when he slid some rather explicit scrolls under her door early in their courtship. Fortunately for every one of us readers, she remembered earlier instructions he’d given her on fae anagrams to decode them. I recall the same instructions now.
The first letter is not your friend , he counseled. It guides you falsely. Start in the heart of the word .
I stare. I sort out combinations.
With clarity’s heady rush, I write what I’ve found in the condensation with my finger.
LAST
Quickly I erase what I’ve inscribed, irrationally worried Scott or one of my companions will come in and notice my deduction.
LAST . Last what? I’ll figure it out. Regardless, I have something I didn’t when I inconveniently found Scott Daniels in my bathroom.
Or conveniently , I guess. I could kiss Scott for sparking my discovery of the clue—except, definitely not.
I wash my hair, welcoming the warm water pounding over my shoulders. Finally, I feel good . I held my own with the greatest enemy of my personal court. I found my first clue.
In fact, Scott doesn’t realize his mockery led me to the clue, which only makes it even more satisfying. I knew I would enjoy solving fae riddles—I just didn’t know I would enjoy it quite so much.