Chapter 41
So, that’s the end of the seven princes.
They’ve come by, they’ve kissed me, and my curse remains unbroken.
I have, at least, been able to call in a favor from each of them—a favor that no one really owes me, beyond what we might give each other in friendship.
And I’ve been able to repay Sasha to some small degree for all she’s done for me.
All that’s left to do now is wait for whatever might come next.
Despite that, I feel as though a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.
I keep the shop closed for the rest of the day and put it back together without help.
I change into the oldest clothes I can find, those that seem best for a day spent cleaning and tidying: soft breeches, an ancient shirt, and a gray wool vest embroidered with yellow flowers.
Bash’s paper birds are still fluttering about the shop, so I corral them into my room, where they flit about the ceiling beams. The Astebani queen’s words have been echoing in my mind for hours: What will my mother think?
The question isn’t if she comes, but when.
I have no doubt the Astebanis sent my parents a message immediately, and I sincerely doubt they’ll wait until Honey has found a sorcerer.
No, now that the princes have failed, they’ll make their way up here to try to sort out the problem themselves.
Astebanis don’t mess about; that letter would have gone out as quickly as possible after the final kiss, and—when motivated—my parents can travel fast. I’d better set my bookstore to rights, and quickly.
I distribute the Astebani rugs about the shop—one in my room, one beneath the desk, one by the door, and one in the center of each story above me. They’re each a work of art, and of almost incalculable value, but the Astebani would consider it an insult if I didn’t put them to practical use.
I get the bookcases back into their original spots with the help of a heavy-object spell, though it takes about an hour’s practice to get it right; nevertheless, the result is good, and leaves me feeling extremely pleased with myself.
The books, too, I can spell back into place and then re-hex, to ensure nothing falls on the unwary customer (or unwillingly kissed princess).
They can be deliberately removed by someone browsing, but that’s it.
They shouldn’t even tip to the side, if I got the spell right.
Finally, I restore all my personal effects to my desk: my quills, notebooks, ledger, money box, stationery, and the little clay dragon Amaritha’s friends made for my reopening.
I moved it from the window to stand in a place of honor on my desk.
I step back, admire my work, then realize I’m caked in dust—how can one now meticulously clean bookshop generate so much dust?
—and take myself to my room for a quick bathe and a turnip.
The door chimes just as I’m retying my vest and I sigh, knowing the door is locked.
Only one person seems to be able to get in and out regardless of the locks on my door.
I pour two cups of tea and take them out. He’s already reclining on the stairs. I hand him one and sit on the stair below his with mine between my hands.
“Nice work, putting it all back together,” he says, without preamble.
“Your blasted birds were a real pain to collect,” I say, though we can both hear how little true animosity there is in my voice.
“Cute, aren’t they? I’m only sorry you wouldn’t let them flutter about last night during your elaborate mating ritual. I think the queen might have really taken against them.”
I sigh. “The Astebani like big windows and open air,” I say.
“That explains why they’ve taken over the courtyard at the inn,” Bash says.
“You’ll be delighted to know Georgelle’s already hung their new sign, by the way.
The Inn of the Seven Princes. I think she and Patience had them painted in advance, hoping all seven would show up eventually.
There’s no way they could have changed them over so fast otherwise. ”
“At least that’s an end to them,” I say, rolling my cup between my hands.
“I meant to ask,” he says. “Who’s our prince of the realm, and why haven’t they kissed you?”
“My sister,” I say. “And I’m sure my parents—and more important, Honey—know that there’s no way that kissing her would unlock my heart’s desire.
She wouldn’t do it anyway. She’d tell me I’m a pure pink idiot for getting cursed in the first place and that I deserve to spend my life locked up in a bookstore.
” She had, in fact, sent me a brief letter containing exactly those sentiments and nothing more, not long after I was cursed.
“Isn’t she the one who got drunk on kitchen rum at age twelve?” he says, sounding mildly outraged.
I smiled. “I told you that one, did I? Anyway, she was sixteen. I was twelve.”
He subsides. “She sounds like she’s got a lot of vinegar, for a princess. Hard to imagine the two of you are cut from the same sailcloth, so to speak.”
There’s a knock at the door, and I sigh and get up and open it. Amaritha and Sasha, done with school and looking for a place to hang out. They grin at me and then dash up the stairs, Bash pulling his legs out of the way as they pass.
I pour us both another cup of tea and then sit back down on the stair below his.
“Your sister,” he prompts.
“We’re not very much alike,” I say. I lean back against the banister and stretch my legs out, so we’re facing each other.
Though he’s too tall to stretch his legs out along his step.
I try not to eye his thighs; it’s undignified to think about someone’s legs, no matter how close they are and how many muscles are not left to the imagination.
“What would she have done, if she’d been cursed to stay in a bookstore until she’d unlocked her heart’s desire?”
I smile. “To begin with, she’d never have gotten cursed to stay here in the first place.
She’s not much of a reader. But the curse wouldn’t have worked on her anyway, I suppose.
She’s always known what she wants. I think, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that I…
I didn’t. I don’t. I still don’t, or else I wouldn’t be cursed anymore. ”
He’s silent for a moment. “What did you think you wanted? Before all this?”
I set my teacup aside and close my eyes, and breathe in the deep mystery of the sea. “I wanted to make everyone happy,” I finally say.
I hear him shift and open my eyes; he’s moving, and I swing my legs aside, so he can sit beside me. I can feel the heat of him, he’s so close. “What do you want now?” he says, very gently.
“What do you want?”
“Nope. No redirection. Tell me what you want now. After all this.”
“I want…to see the new sign outside,” I say.
“I want to see my shop windows from the front. I want to buy a cinnamon roll from Mrs. Mangigony when they’re just out of the oven, and eat it outside her shop even though it’s still too hot, so it burns my tongue.
” This, according to Sasha, is one of life’s chief pleasures.
I want to kiss a man who smells like the sea, even though it’s a thousand miles away, my mind whispers.
I want to stay here, on this step, forever.
Our legs are touching; I look down at them and wonder, again, how a man who sleeps in a barn can be so astonishingly free of hay.
“What do you want?” I ask his leg, not quite able to look him in the face.
He takes my hand, and he’s warm, and I can feel the calluses on his fingers and his palms. With his other hand, he tips my chin up, so our gazes are forced to meet, and though I feel like a thousand horses are running riot through my veins, I can’t look away.
“I’m pretty sure you know what I want,” he murmurs, and his eyes are like deep, dark pools; the light of the full moon spilling across the sea on a still night.
“Yes,” I say, swallowing hard, “but you have to speak the words; that’s how the magic works.”
“You have to act; that’s how the magic works,” he says, close enough now that I can feel his breath on my lips.
I have to act, I think. I have to kiss the man who smells like the sea. I take a shallow breath and drop my gaze to his mouth; his perfect lips; the corner of his cheek where the dimple hides. I raise my free hand and touch the spot where he’ll dimple when he laughs, and he closes his eyes.
I have to act, I repeat to myself. Act.
I lean forward so we’re only inches apart when the chimes over the door ring and the door slams open.
I gasp and pull away from him, leaping to my feet, spinning around to see how someone could have gotten through the hex that no less a person than Honeyrose Brambling, most efficient person in the eight kingdoms, laid on my door.
Three figures, silhouetted against the bright afternoon sun: two tall, one short.
The tallest of the three strides toward me before the doorbell has even stopped tinkling.
“Mother!” I gasp. For it is my mother. And my father. And Honeyrose.
Mother is glaring at me with an expression I recognize too well. “Tanadelle Estrella Amyers de Courcy,” she says, her voice pure iron. “Were you about to kiss that man?”