Chapter 36
Saturday rolls around and with it, the grand reopening.
I’ve spent the week spelling the new logo onto bags and boxes of stationery, page after creamy page of beautiful paper with my little green dragon asleep on her pile of books in the bottom-right corner.
The bookstore is in perfect shape; clean, cozy without being cluttered, and filled with thousands of wonderful books, not a single one of which will fall on or trip up a customer.
Light streams in from outside; the air is clean and clear, and we couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day.
Sasha has even set up a ribbon to be cut, which she is graciously allowing her mother to snip in her capacity as Lord Mayor of Little Pepperidge.
She has also—and this was a truly thoughtful gesture on her part—set the ribbon to be snipped far enough away that I can see it from the third-floor window.
Yenny arranges his fanfare trumpeters alongside the Lord Mayor, three to a side, and they begin playing at ten.
I hope their lips will hold out until noon, the appointed hour of unveiling.
By midmorning, Yenny’s trumpeters have drawn a crowd.
I wonder idly whether and how Bash will show up; it wouldn’t be like him to stand outside and wait, but it also wouldn’t be like him to miss the fun.
Especially given that, apparently, all six princes are planning to attend.
Calla, I was told, whipped them all into shape, giving them a stern talking-to about supporting me in my time of need, or something similar.
I smile a bit at the thought. Perhaps they’ll buy something.
We even stocked a few copies of Belancz’s monograph, which cost a fortune to procure from his royal printer.
I wonder idly if, with enough mead, he could be tempted to give a reading.
“Nice crowd,” Bash says, his voice low in my ear. I gasp and whirl around.
“How did you even get in here?” I say, a little more loudly than a princess ought. In my defense, he took me by surprise.
He shrugs. “Magic.”
I roll my eyes. “Honestly, Bash.” I find I don’t have any sensible way to finish the sentence, so I turn around again to stare out the window. He moves to stand beside me, and I swear I can feel the heat of his body.
“You must be proud,” he says, gently.
“I am, actually,” I say. Modesty prevents me from getting too high up on my horse, but there’s no harm in admitting to a little satisfaction at a job reasonably well done. Especially given the circumstances: curse; no experience; useless princes; falling books.
“Look,” he says, nodding down at the growing crowd.
Amaritha is bouncing around joyfully, Sasha trailing after her in an especially eye-catching ensemble of black velvet and lace.
Her grand reopening best, I presume. At one point, Amaritha turns and throws her arms around Sasha’s neck; the dracone goes stock-still, her hands at her sides, and clearly only just finds the courage to raise them and—possibly—even consider putting them around Amaritha when the perfidian releases her and bounds away.
Even from afar, we can see that Sasha is positively glowing with joy.
“It’s sweet,” I say. “The two of them.”
“Wonder if the mopey one will ever get up the courage to ask the chipper one out,” Bash murmurs. I know he knows their names perfectly well, but heaven forbid he ever so much as suggest emotional attachment to anyone or anything.
I turn to him and fold my arms. Maybe having been kissed by Calla a few days ago has given me a little more courage. “What are you doing here, Bash?”
“Couldn’t miss the party,” he says, not taking his eyes off the crowd.
“There’s plenty of room outside,” I point out. “And my store is, you know, locked.”
“Your store,” he says.
“Yes, my store.”
“You usually refer to it in the plural, you know. ‘Our store, our idea, our thought.’ Or, at least, with a nice, neutral definite article. ‘The store. The desk. The cat.’ ”
I do?
“So it’s good to hear you acting as though you own the place. You and you alone.”
“It’s the royal we, I’m sure,” I say, a little loftily. I’m still processing what he’s just said. Surely that can’t be right. “I must have slipped up.”
“Yes, in this one case, and only when referring to the bookshop, do you use the royal we. But only this one,” he says, smiling a little.
We’re silent for a moment.
“I suppose it never really felt like mine,” I finally say. “It was Mrs. Gooch’s, and Beulah’s before that, whoever she was, and the place where I was living. They weren’t even my clothes, my teacups.” I pause.
“But now they are,” he says, very gently.
“Now they are,” I agree. I’m not sure what changed; maybe it was just the passage of time. “Although I’m still missing one of my teacups and a stack of books,” I point out.
“Those were a fair trade,” he says.
“Except the books!”
“A fair trade, I assure you. You may have even gotten the better bargain, though we won’t know for a while yet.”
“You still won’t tell me what you left when you took my books?”
“No.”
“Will you at least tell me why you’re here now?”
He’s silent, and then looks at me, and I almost take a step back at the sadness in his eyes. “You’re in here, and they’re all out there. You shouldn’t have to be alone.”
My blood feels like it’s bubbling in my veins; I feel suddenly, wholly unprepared for the emotions running riot inside me.
He’s handsome, which throws me off; we flirt, which is fun, if frustrating.
He takes my things and teases me, which is irritating.
But I don’t know how to feel when he’s just being…
gentle. Like a friend. It mixes everything up, leaving my feelings in a muddle. I swallow.
“It was very kind of you to break in this morning so I wouldn’t have to be alone during the grand reopening,” I say, directing my gaze out the window. “My grand reopening,” I amend.
I reach out and take his hand, and lace my fingers through his. His hand is warm, and he closes it on mine.
“Thanks,” I say.