Chapter 13
Curses. “Curses,” I echo. Is this some sort of horrible joke?
Or have my parents already sent someone up here?
But no, I know all seven princes of the realm, and this is not one of them.
Could this be some other prince, from some unknown kingdom?
Someone with an irritating sense of humor, yes.
But easier on the eyes than I’d expected for my parents’ first foray into prince-finding.
Unlikely; his accent is unmistakably southern Widdenmar.
And again, I know all the princes of the Shining Realm. And their brothers and sisters.
“Curses,” he repeats slowly, eyeing me up and down.
Having been a princess for most of my life—well, all of my life—I’m used to some measure of deference from the people around me.
I’ve rarely been insulted directly, and I’ve never, ever, not once, had a man look at me with the naked appraisal this man is directing toward me.
Suddenly self-conscious in a wholly unfamiliar way, I run my hands down my skirt.
I can feel a flush creeping into my cheeks, and I can tell that he’s pleased by my reaction, given the little smirk that immediately tips up the corner of his absolutely perfect mouth.
His perfect mouth?!
I have never noticed a man’s mouth before, much less paid enough attention to mouths to judge perfection. I scowl, and his stupid smirk deepens. An insolent little dimple appears in his cheek.
I straighten my spine, pulling myself into my very best I’m third in line for the throne and you’d better act like you know it posture.
His smirk turns into a full-on grin, one so blindingly beautiful it makes me feel weak in the knees.
“Curses, you say,” I repeat, coldly. “Any particular reason?” I lift my nose in the air and wait for his answer.
“Perhaps I have a friend operating under a dread curse and I’m hoping to help her break it,” he says.
If this is a joke, it’s in appalling taste—no matter how gorgeous this man is in his tight black breeches and billowing shirt, open just enough to hint at slightly more chest than is decent. I lift my nose higher.
“Your friend ought to have come herself,” I say, hoping I sound deflatingly chilly.
He shrugs, a beautiful movement beneath that buttery-soft shirt. “Perhaps I’m the poor fellow who’s cursed,” he says. “Or perhaps I’m just trying to start a conversation.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Heard tell that Beulah Bonecrusher was a staggeringly beautiful woman and had to come see for myself, perhaps,” he suggests.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I say. I’ve been called many things in my life, but “staggeringly beautiful” is not and will never be one of them. And yet my stupid, traitorous cheeks are on fire, and he can tell.
He shrugs again and smiles at me, and I huff—much like Sasha had done just yesterday.
It’s been a while since a man reduced me to a quivering pile of insecurity, but it’s also been a while since anyone flirted with me quite so blatantly, while also being quite so unfathomably attractive.
And by “a while,” I definitely mean “ever.”
“They’re in the back,” I say, and then, without waiting for him to reply, I flee.
I give myself a few moments to regain my composure in my cool, dark little room.
Enough time for the blush to die down, at least. I’ll have to poke around and see if I can find a spell to hide blushes if I’m going to be this discombobulated by any good-looking man in tight breeches who wanders in off the street.
I don’t remember too many of that particular type—in fact, none at all—at the banquet the night before I was cursed, but this particular man doesn’t strike me as a regular formal banquetgoer.
That said, perhaps Little Pepperidge is teeming with handsome men in appealing clothes, and I simply haven’t seen any yet.
My traitorous cheeks heat at the thought.
Either way, I’ll look into an anti-blushing spell.
Thus decided, I bring all the curse books I’d found last night out to him. The first stack of books I carry out is tall enough that I can’t see in front of myself as I walk back to the desk, and I gasp in surprise when I find them being lifted from my arms.
“That’s a fair bundle,” the man says, his hands brushing my arms as he takes the books.
Even through the fabric of my blouse, I can feel the heat of his fingers, trailing across my skin.
My heart rate spikes, as does my breathing.
Maybe he’ll think I’m merely out of breath from having to carry the books, galling though it is to think that he might believe me weak. Better that than the alternative.
Which he’s already clocked anyway, so why I’m bothering, I don’t know. Perhaps because it’s irritating to be so transparent.
“There’re more; I’ll be right back,” I say, turning away. I hear the thump of the first stack as he sets them down on my previously newly tidied desk.
“Do let me,” he says, following me.
By the time I turn around and say, “Oh, no, that’s not necessary,” he’s already in my tiny room, looking around. Oh no. This won’t do. This won’t do at all.
“Cozy,” he says, taking it in.
“Out,” I say.
He laughs. “No need to be embarrassed, Beulah Bonecrusher; I’ve lived shipboard for years and seen more crammed into less.”
“It’s Tanadelle,” I say, severely.
“Bless you,” he answers.
“I haven’t sneezed. That’s my name.”
“Are you sure?”
“Honestly,” I begin, “this is just too much—”
“Is that Tanadelle Bonecrusher or Beulah Tanadelle?” he continues, unperturbed.
“They’re both marvelously compelling, it must be said.
I’ve always loved a polysyllabic name. Tendenterious Caiaphon.
Alyminousan lo Gantrapal,” he says, his voice compellingly, annoyingly deep as he intones the names of two infamous privateers of the last reign. “Delightful,” he concludes.
I point at the second stack of books. “Neither.”
“Intriguing,” he says, and scoops the stack up as though it weighs nothing.
“Out,” I repeat. He laughs, his voice deep and rich and irritatingly sonorous, and moves out of the room, ducking to get through the little doorway.
Keep private apartments locked at all times, I think to myself. Must make a note of that.
I lock the door behind myself and follow him out to the main shop. He’s dropped the second stack on my desk next to the first stack.
Get a table for customers to examine potential purchases, rather than using my desk, I add to my list. I glance around. There’s no room for a table. Clear room for table.
He turns to me and draws a breath, and I hear Sasha’s heavy tread moving overhead. After a moment, she appears on the stairway. “Tandy,” she begins, then spots the man. “Oh,” she says. “You have a, um, customer?”
“Ah, it’s Tandy Bonecrusher,” the man says. “Has a certain ring to it.”
“Her surname’s de Courcy, obviously,” Sasha supplies, not remotely helpfully. “Not Bonecrusher.”
I feel the fire moving back into my cheeks.
It would seem he hadn’t known who I am. Despite my initial suspicions about the man, something inside me twists a little at the idea that he might just have been flirting for the sake of flirting.
That’s not something I can remember ever having happened before.
No one’s ever not known who I am. Not before Mrs. Gooch, anyway.
His brow knits in unmistakable confusion. “You must hate your parents,” he says to me, “them naming you after the princess like that.”
“She is the princess,” Sasha says, her voice dripping with disdain.
I shoot her a look that clearly means Stop talking, stop it this instant, but she blithely ignores it.
“Just got here two days ago. She’s cursed to never leave the bookstore until…
” She looks at me inquiringly. “You get kissed by your true love, I think?”
“Sadly, nothing quite so prescriptive,” I say, trying to keep my voice light.
“My most exquisite apologies, Your Honor,” the man says, and then steps into the most elaborate courtly bow I have ever seen outside an actual royal ballroom.
Then he stands up and grins that big, toothy grin at me. “No wonder you looked so put out when I first came in. You must have thought I was taking the absolute piss with all that about looking to help a friend break a curse.”
“I’m not sure you’re not still,” I say, trying to scowl. His merriment is infectious.
“Only a little. I am trying to break a curse, but it is truly my own.”
“Oh. Well.” I look at Sasha for a moment, who is staring at me with wide eyes. “I couldn’t get much out of those books, but maybe they’ll be more helpful for you.”
“Maybe,” he says, his smile fading as he regards them. “I suppose I’ll just…look at them, then, shall I?”
“I went through them all pretty carefully last night. What kind of curse is it? Maybe I saw something that might help.”
For the first time, I see his mask slip, just for a moment. Then his devil-may-care grin, and its accompanying dimple, are firmly back in place. “Oh, it’s an absolute doddle,” he says. “Fear of water.”
“You’re cursed to be afraid of water?” I repeat. “Didn’t you say—well, imply—that you’re a sailor?”
“Something like that,” he says, breezily. “Didn’t I say it was a doddle?”
“I think it’s more like a cruel irony,” Sasha says, seriously.
“Yes, well, there you have it,” he says. “Any helpful tips?”
“You might need the lips of a prince,” I suggest. “They have very potent kisses, I’ve learned.
The more good-of-heart the prince, the more potent the curse-breaking power of his kiss.
” I sigh. “At least, that was the scholarship a hundred and fifty years ago. None of these”—I wave a hand over the books—“was published more recently than that.”
“Any princes make their way here, I’ll give it a go,” he says. “Anything else?”
“Sasha’s right; it sounds like an ironic curse.
There’s a whole book about that,” I say, moving closer to the book—and therefore him—before thinking better of it and redirecting myself to the other side of the desk.
“Here it is.” I pull the book I’m looking for from the stack and hand it to him.
“Though yours seems…fairly significant. This book mostly seems to deal in little curses, like if you’re afraid of spiders and then are cursed to see them every time you step outside. ”
“Wait,” Sasha says suddenly. “I know who you are.”
He smiles at her, a lazy grin that doesn’t seem to have any effect on her whatsoever despite making my stomach twist. “Do you, then.”
She grins back at him. “We all talk about you at school. Yeah, I know who you are. You live in ol’ Mimsey Magel’s barn.
” She smiles smugly, then gasps and leans forward.
“But, like, how do you live?” Sasha asks him.
“If you’re afraid of water. What do you drink?
What happens if it rains? Seriously, how are you still alive? ”
“It’s worse the more water it is,” he says, his voice light.
“A little water seems to cause a little tremor, but it’s nothing more than you’d feel walking the masts on a still day.
” He glances at me as though I have any idea how frightening such a thing might or might not be, and I raise my eyebrows.
I don’t know many princesses who walk masts on any day, still or otherwise.
“You know,” he adds. “Manageable. The more water it is, the worse the fear.”
“But like, how much is more?” Sasha says. “What about when it rained the other night? What about a puddle? For us, that isn’t much water, but for a hedgehog, that’s a lot.”
“Good thing I’m not a hedgehog.”
“It’s relative to your size, then?” Sasha continues. I shoot her a look. “What?” she says. “I’m just trying to understand. The worst curse I ever got was to spill on myself whenever I wore white.”
Both the cursed sailor and I glance at her outfit, and she rolls her eyes at us.
“Black is cool. I wear black so I don’t just look like everyone else, you know? I broke that dumb spilling curse when I was eleven.”
“I think we can safely presume that it’s relative to his size,” I say, hoping to head this tangent off at the pass.
“It does sound horrible, if you’re a sailor,” Sasha adds. “To be afraid of water. Like, the more water, the more afraid you are.”
“It’s inconvenient, yes.”
“Oh!” Sasha gasps. “Is that why you’re in Little Pepperidge?”
“There’s water in Little Pepperidge,” I say, mystified.
“It’s the furthest point from any significant body of water in the entire country,” Sasha says. “We’re like, proud of that. There’s a plaque in the town square. I had to memorize all that stuff for my civics class when I was ten.”
“You took civics when you were ten?” the cursed sailor asks.
“I know, right?” She rolls her eyes.
“Is that why you’re here?” I ask, turning to him. “Water proximity?” Lack thereof, anyway.
He shrugs. “It doesn’t hurt.”
“Yes, but what do you do when it rains?” Sasha breaks in, undeterred.
“Well, interestingly enough, the curse seems to relate to bodies of water,” he says. “So even rain, collectively, doesn’t seem to count. Dew and mist and droplets are uncomfortable but fine. I haven’t tried it out on snow yet, so that’ll be interesting.”
“But puddles and like, cups of water? Pools? Streams? Waterfalls?”
He nods. “Exactly. To varying degrees of discomfort.”
“So a cup of water…?”
“Manageable.”
“Wow, that’s fucked up.”
“Sasha!” I say, shocked.
“Oh gosh, sorry, Tandy. I forgot.”
The cursed sailor is laughing again. “Forgot what? That Her Most Serene Honor’s not meant to hear the coarse language of the people, lest her delicate ears rot off?”
“It’s not polite to curse in front of, you know. Royalty,” Sasha whispers. “And ‘Your Honor’ is what you say to a judge. ‘Your Highness’ is what you call a princess.”
He shrugs. “You don’t call her Your Highness,” he says.
She looks at me, suddenly horrified. “Oh no. I don’t! I’m so sorry.”
“Stop, I’m not—” I sigh. “While I’m stuck here, in this bookstore, I’m not anyone. Well, I’m not anything. I might as well be Beulah Bonecrusher, bookstore owner. Tandy is fine.”
“I beg your pardon,” the cursed sailor says, executing yet another ridiculous bow. “Tanadelle, I was told.”
“Oh, for crying out loud. You kept calling me Beulah.”
“Is that what that was about?” he says, giving me a knowing wink.
My cheeks flame to life once again, and I scowl at him for about the seventeenth time. “I’ve no idea what you mean.” Obviously I know exactly what he means. He’s flirting with me. Again. It’s entirely discomfiting.
“Naturally,” he says, not remotely discomfited. He must flirt all the time. I feel myself blush again. Flirting is new to me, and I’m not very good at it.
Behind us, on the stairs, Sasha exhales noisily. “I am so confused right now,” she says.