Chapter 9 #3
She didn’t think he sounded all that sure about that, but what did she know?
At least things that hadn’t made sense before had been explained.
She didn’t know any twins, but she’d watched her younger sisters try to pass for each other enough times to finally beg them to just stop.
She couldn’t imagine having another soul in the world who was her duplicate.
The possibilities for leading double lives were staggering.
“Are you a writer, too?” she managed.
Sam shook his head. “Actor.”
No wonder he’d looked so baffled at the reception when people had been quizzing him about his books. Or, rather, his brother’s books—
She stopped thinking. That happened, she supposed, when the particulars of any given situation presented themselves in glorious clarity and demanded her full attention. She looked at her new acquaintance and suspected he was thinking similar thoughts.
“You’re not a writer,” she stated.
Samuel de Piaget shook his head slowly.
“Then what are you going to do about tomorrow morning?” she asked faintly. “The workshop on craft that you’re—well, that your brother is supposed to be giving?”
“Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it?” he ventured. “I don’t know anything about writing, but there are others here who certainly do.”
Harriet realized that he was looking at her expectantly. She had no idea what he expected with that look, but she was fairly sure she wasn’t going to be able to provide it. She grasped for something that sounded reasonable.
“But surely you’ve read his books.”
“Aye, but I haven’t a clue how to write them,” he said, his eyes wide. “But that won’t matter, will it, since you’re here.”
She looked at him blankly. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I was hoping that you could help me a bit more.”
“Help you do what?”
“Help me lead the workshop on craft,” he said carefully. “Since you’re a writer.”
She felt a little lightheaded suddenly. She wasn’t sure if it was from jetlag, stress, or the fact that she wasn’t entirely certain she hadn’t seen someone else slipping in and out of the shadows down the hallway.
She was fairly certain the conference guy hadn’t come back for Round Two, so that was probably just a ghost. She knew that finding that to be a more acceptable alternative than dealing with her current dilemma said something about her present mental state, but she didn’t want to know what.
“Are you going to faint?” Sam asked quickly.
“I’m fine,” she croaked.
“You look pale.”
She felt pale, but perhaps that was to be expected.
She felt Sam’s arm go around her shoulders which helped her with the not-fainting thing, but not much else.
She took a few restorative breaths, nodded, then shifted so she could look at him.
Not squarely, but it was difficult to admit what she knew she had to.
“I too have a confession to make.”
“You’re already famous and have several movie deals waiting in the mews?” he asked hopefully. “Brilliant. You take over the whole thing, then.”
She found herself suddenly wishing she didn’t have to say what she needed to, but she had no choice. She faced him squarely. “I can’t write.”
“Now that’s someone trying to undermine your confidence and you should immediately disregard that noise. Everyone has a story in them.”
“That’s your brother’s line.”
“He stole it from me,” Sam said with a snort. “Of course you can write. And if you want to trap Theo in a corner and quiz him about things I’m sure you can do better already, I’ll make that happen. It’s the least I can do in thanks for your help tomorrow.”
She closed her eyes briefly as she watched her dream come within reach, then gallop away. She sighed, put her shoulders back, then looked at TD Piaget’s brother.
“I can’t write.” She paused. “Literally.”
He studied her for a moment or two. “Can’t, or won’t?”
“Haven’t.”
He blinked several times. “I don’t understand.”
“I mean, I’ve never written anything. Well, outside of essays for school, but that’s a different story. I haven’t written any fiction.”
His mouth fell open. “Not a thing?”
She shook her head.
“Not a word?”
“Well,” she conceded carefully, “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Which words?”
“’It was a dark and stormy night.’”
He bowed his head, laughed a little, then shot her an equally brief smile. “There’s a start, that.”
“Not a great one.”
“I think it’s a wonderful beginning.” He rubbed his hands over his face, then shook his head sharply. “Not to worry. We’ll manage.”
“We?” she echoed. “What is this we business? I’m not going to get up in front of that pack of jackals and leave them plotting my post-workshop demise.”
“You aren’t going to abandon me, are you? Especially after you’ve seen me in powder-blue short trousers?”
She rolled her eyes. “I absolutely want to, but I suppose I can’t.”
His smile faded. “I’m sorry that I’m not Theo. I will make certain you have at least a proper chinwag with him when he returns. You’ll want me there to hand you a sick bucket, though, after too much time with his annoying self, but I won’t leave you to be ill all by yourself.”
“You,” she said, pointing her shoe at him with much less ferocity than she’d used before, “are a good brother.”
He reached up and tucked a lock of her hair she hadn’t quite gotten around to corralling back up into the admittedly very sloppy bun on top of her head, then he smiled at her.
“And you’re a terribly lovely gel.”
“Still without a brush.”
“I don’t think fairies use them,” he said with a shrug. He put his hands on his knees, took a deep breath, then looked at her. “A workshop on craft? Just what are we to do with that?”
“Well, it’s about creating characters, actually,” she said. “Can you do that?”
“I’ve been to a few workshops on that sort of thing,” he admitted. “But those were for actors.”
“Isn’t it the same?”
“Possibly.”
“Short of running away, I’m not sure what else you can do except try to make what you know fit into what people are expecting.”
“I’ll go lock myself in my bedchamber and give it some thought,” Sam said with a sigh.
“For all we know, Theo will be here by morning and all our worry will be for naught. We can leave him to his admirers and run off to have a decent hot breakfast.” He stood up, then held out his hand. “Let me walk you back.”
She put her hand in his as if she’d been doing it forever, then refused to be completely charmed by how he tucked that hand under his elbow in a particularly formal way. Her father would have approved.
Sam stopped eventually in front of Francine’s room, then pulled a pair of lock-picking tools out of his pocket. He opened the door quietly, then looked at her.
“You’ll still come with me in the morning,” he murmured. “Won’t you?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” she whispered. “At least that’s all our secrets out, right?”
He only smiled, which wasn’t at all reassuring. Then again, it kept her from having to tell the whopper of a secret she still had which was that when her parents arrived, they would be investigating that trunk on the left that contained their gear for … well, she couldn’t say what it was for.
Because if Samuel de Piaget found out that her parents were dressing up like medieval people and pretending to live their best lives in 1250, he would think she was nuts and never speak to her again.
She was surprised by how much that bothered her.
“Sleep well, my lady.”
She nodded, stepped into Francine’s room, then smiled at Sam before she shut the door and locked it again.
She wasn’t entirely certain what to make of the evening’s events. Mysteries, mistaken identities, twins, and a charming Englishman wrapped up in all of them. She knew she shouldn’t have been surprised.
She could hardly wait to see what England delivered next, though she imagined it couldn’t top that.