20
It’s awful. This business of falling in love. The enigma makes her feel anger, envy, wonder, sorrow.
At dawn, Love paces and strives to talk herself out of the problem. However, this craving is a wild animal racing from here to there inside her. It’s impossible to catch, impossible to kill.
She is a fool. It can only be the first stirrings of love.
Yet there’s something more ahead, a final boundary she has yet to cross, the point of no return. Love cannot say how, but she senses that she’s close, so very close to this pivotal emotion.
Hoping to explain herself, she sets off into the village. It’s a drowsy winter morning, inky blue from the early hour. She reaches his house but finds it vacant.
The bookstore. That’s where he’ll accept her apology.
The laborious effort of walking through Evershire sets Love on edge. Piles of snow hamper her progress in a way it hasn’t before. Acutely, she feels the distance.
As Love travels through the main square, she crosses paths with another couple she’d matched. The two men hold hands as they step into a coffeehouse, which emits the aromas of roasted beans and chocolate. They were enamored from the beginning, bringing them closer together had required minimal effort, and they now look happy.
Are they, truly? How much of their love is their own doing? Has she served any pair with justice?
Supple golden light illuminates Georgie’s bookstore from the inside, the sight relaxing Love. The door is open, yet the sign indicates the shop hasn’t opened yet. Andrew doesn’t come here every day, though he could be helping the matriarch with an unexpected project. It’s worth having a look.
Love slips past the threshold, then tiptoes inside. The tunes of a flute, cello, and harp play over the ceiling speakers. It’s the sort of melody faeries would compose, if they were to exist.
A candle blooms beside the register where Georgie sits, her hair swept into a loose chignon at her nape and a blouse popping out of her skirt. She’s scribbling something into a ledger.
Love keeps her footsteps light as she migrates to the other rooms, finding them unoccupied, then returning to the main area. Georgie hasn’t moved from her perch, the woman’s head bowing in concentration.
“He’s not here,” she announces without looking up.
Love freezes next to the fairytale shelves. Surely, the matriarch must be talking to herself.
Georgie’s head rises, her eyes scanning the room. Love sags with relief. The shopkeeper discerns a spectral presence enough to call out, though she cannot see Love. Fanciful humans have done this before, desperate to believe a strange breeze is the ghost of someone they’ve lost.
“He’s not here,” she repeats. “But you’re here, I bet.”
Love clamps her mouth shut, willing the female to give up, which she does, returning to her ledger as if nothing has occurred. With caution, Love shuffles toward the doorway, determined to flee quickly.
“Of course, Andrew forgot some editing notes he made for his latest WIP.” Georgie grabs a leaflet, holds it above the candle, and lets it go.
Love leaps toward the paper and catches the item inches above the flame, then realizes her mistake. In her grasp, the paper floats midair before the woman’s eyes.
“Well, hell.” Georgie wipes her hands. “Oldest trick in the book. Pun intended.”
Damnation. Love is impressed and stricken over the rudimentary error. She refuses to move, arm stretched out, the editing notes hovering until Georgie plucks it from Love’s fingers.
“Iris, right?” the matriarch says, setting the leaflet on the counter and peering in Love’s direction. The taste and scent of the woman’s emotions suggest piqued interest. “Well, Iris. You’re trespassing, so I like you already. I approve of a spirited female with the balls to go after what she wants.” There’s no mistaking the protective glint in Georgie’s eyes. “But I also like a female with honorable intentions. So: Let’s talk about our man.”
Shock pins Love to the floor. She squares her shoulders, doing her best to appear dignified.
“Anything unattainable has its appeal,” the woman says. “Despite his status as a hermit, Andrew’s success—and let’s be honest, his face—makes him a catch rather than an outcast, though everyone in a three-mile radius would hate to admit it. People call him superior one second, then steal a long, horny look at his ass the next second.”
The matriarch glances toward the bookshelves, then returns her assessing gaze in Love’s direction. “I’ve known him since he was a little shit. Andrew’s indifferent to the effect he has, he isn’t comfortable in social situations other than book signings and livestreams, and yet when he introduced you to me? Iris, that was a whole new level of himself. It was like you’d lit a match to the guy.
“I should be troubled since you’re a specter, and this isn’t going to end well, but that’s not my style. I live too much in my head for that. Plus, these days, lots of people have as many deep relationships online as they do in the flesh. And I’ll tell you what, there are plenty of fictional characters who’ve ruined my life.
“I’m keen on making sure my guy’s happy. That’s the problem, Iris. From one day to the next, he’s gone from grinning like an asshole to brooding as if someone has cut out his heart with a dull knife. It’s not a good look for him. He’s already been dealt a rough hand, and he pulled himself out of it—for the most part.”
Her voice thickens, as if she’s trying to speak around a lump in her throat. “Do you know what it’s like to lose someone you care about, Iris? I’m not talking about a breakup. I’m talking about really losing someone out of nowhere. A person who’s irreplaceable.”
No. Love does not know what that’s like.
Georgie does. Andrew had said she’s a widow. It shows in her downturned lips and the lonely glint of her wedding ring, which Love never noticed until now.
In reply, Love pinches the candlewick between her fingers, dousing the flame, guessing that’s how it feels. Like a light disappearing from inside her.
“Yep. It’s almost like that but not quite,” Georgie acknowledges, a thread of grief in her words. She grabs a matchbook and relights the candle, the fire bursting to life. “I take it no one’s ever been that important to you.”
Love wavers, uncertain whether to feel lucky or tragic.
The woman tosses down the matchbook. “No one deserves to know that anguish, although we all inevitably go through it. Andrew is my lifeline; it’s been that way since he was a kid. Used to come in here and browse the books for so long, I finally caved and gave him a job.” A wistful grin tilts her lips. “He likes to say this shop steered his fate, made him love fantasy enough to write about it. Because of that, he maintains this place for me. Can’t stop him from repainting every chipped surface and upkeeping every shelf. I’ve tried, but he insists.”
The matriarch sobers. “I don’t want Andrew to suffer because you left without a word or did something worse. He’s carrying enough loss on his shoulders. My guy can be a snarky pain in the ass, I know that. But he’s a noble, snarky pain in the ass. He’ll treat a woman right, and he deserves somebody who’ll care about him just the same, so whatever your business here, make sure it’s the decent kind. I have a pitchfork in my closet, right beside my fabulous shoe collection, and I’m not afraid to use it.”
Love resists the urge to hang her head. A human is lecturing her, admonishing Love as if she’s an average woman. The feeling is unprecedented and intimidating, yet it drains her of apprehension.
She recalls the forbidden notes Wonder had written to a human man, in addition to the consequences that followed. The visual of Wonder’s mutilated hands should alarm Love. Such ramifications should prevent her from picking a blank leaflet of paper off the counter and stealing Georgie’s pencil from behind the woman’s ear.
It doesn’t. This won’t change the outcome of Love’s mission. She merely wants the chance to win this woman’s approval.
Yet how to proceed?
I’d like your blessing to be his friend… No.
I ask your permission to be his friend… No.
Fates. Andrew would tease Love, saying she’s terrible at this.
Honesty about her feelings is unwise. If it were harmless to reveal, Andrew would be the first to learn what resides in her heart. She needs an alternative, words to promise what he means to her.
The instrumental melody drifts from the speakers. In the candlelight, Love summons her fortitude and writes. Georgie watches in amusement as Love finishes and then slides the leaflet across the counter. Stepping back, Love folds her hands behind her, respectfully awaiting the verdict.
I will take care of him.
The woman chuckles. “If Andrew has his way, he’ll take care of you more.”
Love delights in this moment, knowing a repeat performance is unlikely.
“You’re excused,” Georgie says, grabbing the paper and dumping it onto a stack of hardcovers. “Oh, and forget these edits. Ain’t nothing but inventory records.”
Love’s mouth parts, then curls into a grin. Clever mortal.