Chapter 19
The pirate doesn’t leave after his cryptic comment, despite my pointed suggestions that he go; instead he arranges himself in a lounge across the stairs and spends an idle quarter of an hour speculating about the sorts of people who write tragic romances.
Spinsters, he suggests, until I point out that the bulk of the books upstairs are written by men.
We then argue about whether single men in their elder years can be considered “spinsters” until the Lord Mayor appears at about seven, a plump dwarf in a very tall hat carrying a clinking bag following close behind.
“Darling,” the Lord Mayor trills. “Darling, this is Hestia, my oldest and dearest friend. Hestia, this is our very own cursed princess!”
“Your Highness!” the dwarf says, dropping into a deep curtsy.
“I’ve brought you a bottle of my humble mead; I’m sure you’ve developed a most refined palate by tasting the finest wines ever produced, and my mead is utterly forgettable in comparison!
” She produces a bottle from her bag and hands it to me with another curtsy.
Despite the polite modesty of her speech, I can see that she’s extremely proud of her mead.
“No need to stand on formality,” I say, “and thank you. I’m delighted to try it.”
Hestia blushes. “I hope you enjoy it, child! Though I wouldn’t expect any such thing, of course!”
“The princess has taken dear Si’masasha under her wing,” the Lord Mayor begins. “It’s effected such a transformation upon her; I half expect her to add a bit of gray to her wardrobe! Come, come upstairs; see what my Si’masasha has done!”
She turns and discovers the pirate, still lounging on the stairs, very much in her way. “Well, hellooooo there,” she says, in a very different voice. “You must be our infamous barn pirate.”
“Arr, matey,” he says agreeably, and, to my horror, the Lord Mayor and her friend giggle.
“What a delight,” she says, turning back to me. “The Barn Pirate! Here! The coven will be thrilled!”
“Barn Pirate,” I mouth to him, over her shoulder. He shrugs and pushes himself to his feet, moving aside so the two women can walk past him.
With a last flirtatious flutter of her lashes at the pirate, the Lord Mayor pulls her friend up the stairs; I hear their footsteps fade onto the third floor, and then the muted but unmistakable sounds of two people exclaiming over something they like.
Within the next quarter hour, six more women have joined the Lord Mayor and her friend: one orc, who looks around approvingly and says, in a shockingly gentle voice, “You’re doing a lovely job here, my dear”; two more dwarves; and two humans—all of whom smile extremely broadly at the pirate and exchange meaningful glances with one another—and, lastly, someone cloaked entirely in whispering black garments.
The sight of her makes gooseflesh break out across my entire body.
“I’m here for the booooookkkkk cluuuuubbbbbb,” she intones dolorously.
Her voice sounds like the wind sweeping through a cemetery.
I swallow and point upstairs. She nods and floats away, her aura of creeping dread following her, and, once my tremors have subsided, I make a note in my trusty journal for tomorrow:
Ask Sasha about the staggering horror in her mother’s book club.
The sounds of merriment, clinking goblets, and, occasionally, serious discussion drift down to me.
I stay at my desk, the bluecaps wafting gently about my head and the cat purring, apparently three feet to my left, although it feels as though she’s sitting on my lap.
The pirate, for reasons known only to himself, also stays, lounging on the stairs and tying complicated knots in bits of twine and string and then untying them again, and asking me irritating questions about royal life.
How many meals do I eat in a day? (Depends on the day.) What’s the longest a royal banquet has gone on for?
(Three days.) How many crowns do I own? (The royal house owns twenty-seven; four are intended for the use of the younger princesses.) Do I wear underthings beneath all those garments, and isn’t that awfully hot?
(None of his business, a sentiment delivered primly and with a minimum of blushing.) The bells strike ten before I hear footsteps, and not long after, my group of eight come traipsing merrily down the stairs, their cheeks flushed, books clutched in every hand.
Jackpot, I think, gleefully. Sales.
“Darling,” the Lord Mayor says, rippling over to my desk, “that was simply the pleasantest meeting of the coven we’ve ever held.
Such atmosphere! I must tell my Si’masasha what a marvelous job she’s done up there.
I must tell you both, really; this has been a transformative experience!
And your selection! I’ve never read Riots After Midnight, but I simply couldn’t pass it up once I had taken in that darling little card you set out next to it.
Do ring me up, dear?” She hands me Margaritte Stonehaw’s classic novel of doomed love, and I note with some pleasure that she’s chosen the more expensive volume of the two I’d set out on the “trust me” shelf.
I sell fourteen books, including a copy of Raising Poultry for Pleasure and Profit to the creeping horror, who thanks me with terrifying politeness and compliments the “chickens” shelf. I suppress my shudder and tell her as brightly as I can manage that I hope she enjoys the book.
“Oh, I wiiillllllll,” she intones, with dread promise.
“Don’t mind her,” the orc whispers. “It takes a bit of getting used to, but once you see through the natural dread she instills in all living creatures, Caroline is really quite lovely. Wicked sense of humor. Terribly fond of birds.”
“Indeed!” I chirp, hoping against hope that Caroline will head out very, very soon.
After a few more minutes with the book club collectively delighting in various bits and bobs I’ve stashed around the desk, including effusive compliments directed toward the stationery Honey left me for personal use—note; stock stationery to sell at slight markup? —the group finally drifts out.
“I need to clean up,” I tell the pirate, who is still here. “You don’t need to stay.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” he says, lightly.
Sighing, I step over him and head upstairs to examine the damage, but aside from a number of empty bottles and eight goblets, sticky with mead residue, the third floor is in fantastic shape.
“If you’re going to be hanging around,” I yell down the stairs, “you might as well come carry some bottles and make yourself useful.”
“Thought you’d never ask,” he says, appearing on a gust of salt-scented breeze and taking the empty bottles from my arms. We stash the bottles by the front door and stack the goblets in a space I’ve set out for them in a cupboard under the stairs.
I had to use several spells to encourage the alarming number of spiders inhabiting the cupboard to vacate it last week, but they don’t appear to have returned.
One little washing spell leaves the goblets sparkling and ready for their next outing, and I finally manage to shoo the pirate off and retire to bed feeling extremely pleased with myself. My hand doesn’t even hurt anymore.