Chapter 37
The next morning, before opening the shop, I sit down and write a letter on my lovely new stationery.
I’d sold most of it, but I’d kept a box for myself.
Before falling asleep last night, while trying to find a way to thank Sasha and Amaritha for their help in transforming the bookshop, I’d had an interesting thought.
This morning, I’d woken to find it a fully formed idea.
In the end, I write six letters, each carefully attuned to the sensibilities of their recipients, calling in favors I’m not sure anyone owes me.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last few months, it’s that you won’t get anything if you don’t ask for it.
As a royal, I’d never had a need or a want go unmet, usually before I’d so much as felt the need or the want in question.
But here, in the bookstore—my bookstore, I correct myself—I have to think, anticipate, plan.
Ask. It’s…it’s nice, I think. Every day has a shape to it, every challenge an opportunity.
Problems have solutions; I just have to find them.
I fold the letters and slip them into envelopes, and seal them with my royal seal, so there can be no doubt who they’re from and are unlikely to go ignored.
When Sasha appears, I hand the letters to her and ask her to take them to the Inn of the Six Princes.
All six remain, even Calla, who told me yesterday that she wants “to see this thing through to the end.” Yenny has been extremely generous in asking his trumpeters to help me out in the bookstore when I need it, explaining that he couldn’t leave me on my own, great green dragon forfend.
Only, I’ve been careful to tell him, if they don’t mind.
Oddly, they never seem to mind. Perhaps attracting customers to my shop, or getting books down from high shelves, is more fun than whatever Yenny generally has them doing—trailing after him, or just ahead of him, announcing his presence.
The lovely thing about my grand reopening is that it seems to have finally ended whatever concerns the locals had about patronizing my store.
I have a steady stream of customers all day, some from as far afield as Crofar, and even if they don’t buy a book, most of them walk out with one of my canvas bags; my stock is nearly depleted by the end of the afternoon and I’ve turned a nice little profit to boot.
I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself when I shoo everyone away and flip the rock over to “closed.” I should know better. Someone knocks almost immediately, and when I open the door, I find Sasha, Amaritha, Bash, and all six princes staring at me, wide-eyed.
“Oh no,” I say.
“My darling Tanadelle,” Driz says, loudly but regretfully, “the day we’ve dreaded is finally at hand.”
I take a fortifying breath. Astebaen.
“Is he here?”
“They’re here,” Amaritha says.
“At the inn,” Yenny supplies.
“The other princes all got kicked out!” Sasha blurts, grinning like a manticore.
That is to say, toothily, and with great enthusiasm.
“They’re laying down rugs or deep-cleaning or something!
They say they can’t stay there until it has been”—she lowers her voice significantly—“purged. There are so many of them! They all have brooms and dustpans!”
“I was in the middle of a meal,” Bel says, sounding extremely put out. He must be, to admit to dining. He and his countrymen put little value in such piddling mortal concerns as sleeping and eating.
“We haven’t anywhere else to go,” Ternis adds, a little plaintively. “No home to call our own in a time of great need.”
“You can come in, but you can’t all sleep here,” I say, but I step aside and let them troop in.
“I did offer my barn,” Bash murmurs as he walks by, and I ignore the way the scent of him makes my heart race.
“I’m sure farmer Magel wouldn’t mind.” How can he make that sound so suggestive, when I know for a fact that farmer Magel is ninety-three years old and that he himself sleeps in a drafty hayloft?
“You’re a menace,” I whisper to him. “Everyone up to the third floor. There’s not enough room down here for all of us.”
“What if he comes here…tonight?” someone asks.
I don’t much fancy getting my seventh and final kiss in front of such a large audience, especially given the identity of the kisser, but I’d rather get it over with as soon as possible.
“If he does, we’ll…figure something out,” I say.
“Sasha, will you run and ask your mother to send…well, any mead she’s got. ”
“Wine, please,” someone says.
“Beer for me.”
“Pear cider, but only if it’s dry.”
“Haven’t you got anything harder than mead?”
“I don’t drink alcohol,” someone interrupts.
“Oh, by the eight kingdoms,” I sigh. I leave Bash upstairs to irritate the crowd and chivy Sasha and Amaritha downstairs.
I pull open my money box and hand Sasha the wad of cash I’ve made in the last two days.
Her eyes widen comically. “Take this to the inn and have Yenny’s trumpeters buy… well, everything. And cups.”
“Ooooh…kay,” she breathes.
“And snacks,” Amaritha adds.
“There should be enough there to cover it. See if you can find out when they’ll let the rabble back in, will you? I can’t have them here all night.”
The girls reappear twenty minutes later, trumpeters in tow, each carrying boxes filled with clinking, sloshing bottles. I direct them all upstairs and then send the girls home, despite their complaints.
“What if he comes by to kiss you when I’m not here?” Sasha whines. “I’ve seen nearly all the rest; it wouldn’t be fair!”
“He won’t,” I assure her. “There’s no way.”
“Because what if this one works and we never see you again?” Sasha looks suddenly a little vulnerable.
“We’re coming back first thing tomorrow,” Amaritha says. “First. Thing.”
“Prince Astebaen is not my heart’s desire. His kiss absolutely will not work,” I say, with as much force as possible.
Amaritha and Sasha share a meaningful glance.
“Yeah, probably not,” Sasha says.
“Definitely not,” I say again.
“You’re going to depress the Barn Pirate so much when you leave,” Amaritha says. “It’s actually kind of tragic how into you he is.”
I feel color flood my cheeks. “Nonsense,” I say. “Go home and get a good night’s rest and…” I pause. “Pray to the great green dragon that I get everyone out of here before they put themselves to sleep with too much drink.”
Amaritha smiles, a little evilly.
“Actually, I won’t pray for that,” Sasha says, a similar expression on her face. “I think you should have a sleepover. With all of them.”
“Get out,” I say, swatting at them good-naturedly.
“Byeeeee,” they chirp as the door swings shut behind them, and I sigh and lean against the desk. I can already hear the sound of carousing from upstairs.
It’s going to be a long night.