Chapter 26
Enid
Isat in the library, staring at the circle of women surrounding me, plus that little pink worm with wings.
I still didn’t know what kind of creature it was after all these years.
Everyone was silent, gazes shifting back and forth, looking as awkward as I felt.
Nevan had told me I needed to start branching out beyond him, and he’d gotten Fiona to agree that this book club could be my “friend party,” which I assumed would be the least terrible of all my options.
“Hey, it’s my favorite green lady!” a voice called, and I stiffened.
Fiona poked her head out from behind a stuffed blue chair.
“Hi, Auntie Harriet!” she said to the woman seated there.
They had the same tawny brown skin and hazel eyes, both had the same textured black hair, though Harriet’s spiraled around her face in tight curls while Fiona’s was plaited in little braids.
“Fiona!” Harriet said.
“What?” Fiona shrugged. “I thought I’d tag along.”
I hadn’t seen Fiona since her surprise visit to my cottage .
. . when she’d overheard me and Ambrose.
I still wasn’t sure how she’d been able to hear Ambrose’s voice.
Because of the curse on the Fair Folk, no human could see or hear them.
I wondered if it had something to do with Fairwitch Isle, with the magic of this city, but I couldn’t be sure.
I’d have to mention it to Ambrose on his next visit, something I didn’t want to think about right now.
Harriet shot the group an apologetic look. “You’re supposed to be in bed.” The little girl ignored her, scampering onto her lap and looking at the group expectantly.
She wrinkled her nose. “This is a boring party so far.”
I choked out a laugh that turned into a cough. At least Fiona was honest. I could respect honesty over passive aggressiveness, something I got a lot from humans.
Niamh bustled toward the group, carrying what looked like a tray of cheese, bread, and wine.
“Oh, thank the godwitches.” Ceri reached forward and snatched one of the glasses off the tray.
“Welcome to book club,” Niamh said in a singsong voice, grinning at the group.
Fiona clapped her hands. “Ooh, I love books!”
“You don’t even know how to read,” Harriet pointed out.
Fiona’s bottom lip jutted out. “You read to me all the time.”
Harriet kissed the top of her head. “Fair point.”
Niamh’s gaze landed on Fiona as if she was just realizing the little girl was there. “Fiona, we love having you here, but this book club might not be appropriate for you.”
I leaned forward, suddenly more interested. Were we reading about gore? Death? War? I loved all those topics.
Ceri stabbed a cube of cheese with a small silver fork. “Ooh, is it going to be spicy?” She waggled her brows.
“I want to join too!” a voice called from behind Ceri.
Margaret beamed from her painting, shaking some of her glossy black hair behind her shoulders. She wore the same thing as always, which I supposed made sense if she was a painting—a plain beige dress that hung down to her ankles.
“Hi!” She waved, a wide smile on her lips. “Unlike Fiona, I can read. I don’t know how, but I think it was part of my backstory when I was painted. So . . . is it spicy?” she asked, echoing Ceri’s question.
“Spicy?” Fiona wrinkled her nose. “Auntie, how can a book be spicy?”
I was wondering the same thing.
“Okay.” Harriet grabbed Fiona and set her on the ground. “And that is your cue to leave.”
Fiona crossed her arms and stomped a foot. “I don’t want to. I want to be part of a club too.”
“You can be part of my club,” I said. “My garden club.”
Fiona whirled toward me. “Really?”
Harriet shot me a grateful look, even though I was already cursing myself for speaking up. It had been clear that Fiona shouldn’t be here, and I didn’t want to witness a full-on meltdown from the little girl.
“Really,” I said. “You can help me in my gardens as long as you listen and treat the plants with respect.”
Godwitches be. Having Nevan’s mouth between my legs had really softened me. Here I was inviting a little girl to garden with me so she wouldn’t feel left out. I held back my shudder.
“Okay!” Fiona smiled widely. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”
“Tomorrow?” I asked as she skipped away. I had meant it more as a we’ll talk about it kind of thing, not as a solid plan that would start in twelve hours.
“Thank you,” Harriet said.
“It’s no problem.” I shifted in my seat as she looked at me with warmth in her eyes.
I wasn’t used to any kind of softness from the head of the royal guard. Harriet was always so stern and gruff. But in this environment, she leaned back in her chair, wearing a pair of soft brown trousers and a green blouse, looking relaxed as she took a sip of her wine.
“I’m sorry about the statue,” I blurted out. Once again, everyone’s gazes snapped to me, and I raised my chin. “I know that statue meant a lot to everyone—”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Niamh said. “You weren’t even the one who destroyed it, and we can always build another statue. We’re glad you’re here.”
“Right,” I said, confused about why they were being so nice.
Maybe Nevan was right, and everyone could forgive me. Maybe I could make friends. The thought terrified me as much as it intrigued me. Nevan might actually know what he was doing. He definitely knew what he was doing with his mouth.
I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about that day in the garden, how he’d so thoroughly devoured me. I hadn’t seen him since. He’d been busy making the house calls his brother demanded. But I had a surprise for him tomorrow, and I hoped I might get to experience that mouth on me again.
“Enid, what do you think?” Niamh asked, looking at me expectantly.
I swallowed, having absolutely no idea what they were going on about.
Niamh leaned over from where she sat in her chair, that little worm still in her lap, staring at me with its large black eyes. “We’re trying to decide whether to start with enemies-to-lovers or friend-to-lovers.”
I’d never heard of either of those and I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. “Does this have to do with the spicy books?”
Margaret cocked her head. “Do you know what spicy books are?”
“Books about cooking?” I guessed. Quite frankly, that sounded incredibly boring, but I’d suffer through it to go along with Nevan’s plan.
Ceri choked on her cheese, coughing. “You’ve never read smut?” she asked, her plump cheeks already rosy, her wineglass almost drained.
“Smut?” I echoed.
“Oh, you’re in for an education.” Harriet raised her glass.
“Did Nevan not tell you?” Niamh rolled her eyes. “Typical man. This is a romance book club. Are you okay with that?”
I’d never read a romance book before. Most of the books that were written in the time of the godwitches were tragedies or comedies, and if they had romance in them, it usually didn’t end well.
“So it’s just a book about two people falling in love?”
“Well.” Niamh’s expression turned thoughtful. “Yes.”
Ceri straightened. “But there are obstacles that keep the lovers apart. They have wounds to overcome and ways they have to grow. Sometimes it’s heartbreaking.”
“Do they die?” I asked, hoping the answer was yes. That would make the story far more interesting.
“No, never.” Margaret looked horrified.
Niamh took a bite of cheese, speaking through a mouthful. “There’s always a happy ending in romance.”
“It’s the rule of the genre,” Harriet said.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about this. “And what is this spice?” I tried to remember the word Ceri had used. “The smut?”
“Sex,” Harriet said. “Lots of good sex.”
“But it has a purpose,” Ceri added. “It’s about showing growth in the characters and their relationship.”
“Or sometimes showing the opposite,” Margaret said from her painting. “We read that book last month about the two rival guards who had a deal to just have sex with no feelings involved.”
An image of Nevan’s mouth between my legs flashed in my mind. Sex with no feelings involved sounded very familiar. Maybe the books wouldn’t be so bad after all.
“I’ll try it,” I said.
“So enemies-to-lovers or friends-to-lovers?” Niamh asked again, and now that they’d explained the genre, I understood the gist of the question.
“Please not friends-to-lovers.” Ceri tugged on her blond curls.
“What’s wrong with friends becoming lovers?” I shot a glance around the group. Maybe I was missing something.
“It hits too close to home,” Harriet said into her cup.
Ceri shot her a glare. “No it does not because there’s nothing going on between us.”
“Between who?” I’d caught up to speed on one topic only to fall behind on another.
Ceri leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Prince Cillian and I have been best friends since we were children, before Castle ever chose him as high prince. There are constant rumors about the nature of our relationship, but none of them are true. Everyone is convinced we’re secretly lovers. It’s absurd.”
“Okay, okay, no friends-to-lovers,” Niamh said. She held up a light blue book with a floral golden border. “The decision is made. This is going to be our read this month. It’s about a woman on the run who hides out in a village and the grumpy innkeeper she falls for.”
A woman on the run. That sounded like it could be interesting.
Niamh patted a stack of books sitting on the table between us. “How about we all read the first few chapters, then meet again next week?”
She started passing out the books, handing me my copy.
“Morton,” Niamh said sternly at the little wyrm that sat in her chair. “No eating this one and spoiling it.”
Morton groaned. “I did that one time.”
“And it ruined the book for all of us.” Ceri shook her head, blond curls bouncing.
“You eat books?” I asked, studying the creature and wondering what godwitch’s magic was responsible for it.
“Just don’t eat this one,” Niamh said gently, and Morton harrumphed.
“I should get back and help Maya put Fiona to bed.” Harriet stood. “See you all next week.”
“And I need to check on my father. I don’t like leaving him alone for too long.” Ceri gave a quick wave and followed Harriet out the door.