He looks at me, asking with remarkable politeness—
“Why do you think you have any right to ask questions?”
Fair point.
And so...I do as he asks and pick up where I left off.
I tell him about the bookshop that appeared out of nowhere. The tea that tasted like comfort and made me feel safe when I shouldn't have. The book—the impossible book with my name in it, my face in the illustrations, my life described in ink that looked centuries old.
He starts drumming his fingers on his desk when I tell him about the four routes, the four kings. About choosing Quinn and Skye and Wolfe.
“But you did not pick my route?”
Wow.
Either he knows something about Hewhay’s...or he’s just really good at playing along, with the way he asks me about his “route”so easily. And while my brain is now sufficiently in control, urging me this time to play it safe and lie—
“You seemed too intense for someone like me.”
I end up stammering the truth out.
Again.
“Is that so?”
“You w-were described as someone with a legendary temper, and I—”
“So I scared you away.”
“No, it’s not—” I feel like I should apologize. I’m really tempted to apologize. I have a feeling I’ve offended him for not choosing his route. “It’s just—”
“Never mind. Proceed with your story.”
“Uh...right.” I’mdyingto apologize, but I have a feeling saying ‘I’m sorry’ is just going to make him hate me even more.
“Well?”
The rest of my words tumble out in a rush at the impatient note in his voice. I tell him about falling asleep in the velvet armchair. About waking up in his chapel. About the woman in black who grabbed me, begged me not to tell, and disappeared through a door that shouldn't exist.
When I finish, silence fills the room.
Devyn hasn't moved. Hasn't blinked, as far as I can tell. He's just watching me with those golden eyes, and I'm acutely aware ofhow ridiculous this all sounds. A magical bookshop. A book with my name in it. A portal to another world.
If I were him, I wouldn't believe me either.
My stomach chooses this moment to growl.
Loudly.
Mortifyingly, undeniably loudly, like some kind of dying whale sound that echoes off the immaculate walls of his immaculate study.
Ugh.
My face goes hot. I can feel the blush spreading from my cheeks down my neck, and there's nowhere to hide, no way to pretend that didn't just happen.
"I—sorry. I didn't—I haven't eaten since—"
I don't actually know when I last ate. Yesterday? The day before? Time has gotten slippery.
