“I’m a bookseller,” replied Fern, which didn’t seem very useful at the moment.
Astryx appeared skeptical. “That doesn’t bode well for your prospects.”
Fern privately agreed, but said, “I’m a veryresourcefulbookseller . . . ?”
There was a long silence, during which the draft horse cropped several mouthfuls of grass from the verge and flicked away a few bothersome flies.
“Ta shunka,”declared the goblin.
Astryx glanced between the two of them and then raised both brows at Fern expectantly.
Fern sighed. “It means, ‘you’re fucked.’”
5
Dear Viv,
I have no idea how to write this letter to you. This is the fourth attempt, in fact. All the others have started the same way, though.
I’m sorry.
And every time I write that, I immediately want to cross it out because it looks so small and stupid and useless on the page.
Ifeelsmall and stupid. And I guess also useless.
But I can’t get around writing those words. This letter has to start that way.
In the previous three versions, it got really pitiful after that point, and there was a lot of blubbering and wailing and abasement, but that feels self-indulgent, so I’m skipping it this time. Maybe that means I’ll get further.
Fern looked up and made a sour face. “Gods, this is terrible.” She took a moment to survey the green swells of countryside through which they passed. After several skins of water, half of the bread-slash-rock Astryx had offered—the pungent cheese was a no-go—and a solid afternoon of travel, Fern’s hangover had fled at last.
Lupine bloomed along the side of the road, and hayricks studded distant fields. A windmill twirled lazily in the distance. The wind played through her fur, and the cart creaked gently beneath her, the motion of which was either very soothing, or like a hammer blow to the spine, depending on the condition of the road beneath. They were currently enjoying the nicer of the two options. It was a great relief.
She returned her attention to the parchment, and her charcoal pencil.
Cal may have already told you that I had a bit of a breakdown.
Fern rolled her eyes and scratched that out.
I am planning to return as soon as possible, and I am probably standing in front of you watching as you read this.
She put the pencil to her lips.
Or maybe I’m lying dead by the side of the road, and this letter found itself to you via some other mysterious means.
“For fuck’s sake,” she muttered, and furiously scratched that out, too. The likelihood of scrapping this entire attempt was growing by the word.
The upshot is that a terrible feeling has been growing in me for years. The new shop was supposed to fix that, but the feeling didn’t disappear, even with everything working out perfectly, and I guess I got scared. And then I got drunk. And on my way to explain all this to you, I crawled into the back of a cart and passed out, and now I’m far from home.
Well, that was essentially true, anyway. Even if it did sound preposterous.
I hope Potroast is all right. I can’t even write my apology to him. I don’t know if he’ll ever forgive me for disappearing. There might not be enough baked goods in the world.
Fern had to pause to arm away a tear. Bad as she felt about leaving Viv in the lurch after all her investment into Thistleburr, all the energy she’d poured into it . . . the realization that she’d left Potroast behind kept her stomach knotted long after the hangover had faded. She knew he’d be cared for, but . . .
I will find my way back.
Even though I’m riding in the wrong direction,Fern thought, but did not write.
