“Oh, no. There’s plenty more. I knew you’d be most excited about that one, and it would be a crime not to reserve your copy at the counter. Go ahead and browse. You know where to find the good stuff.” He gives me a wink, and I make my way to the back of the store,The Governess and the Earlstill clutched close to my chest.
I reach the romance section, a wall of my favorite books spanning before me, most of which I’ve read once, if not several times. The aroma of paper envelops me like a warm blanket, one that feels like home. Safety. I’m so comforted in this moment, tears begin to prick my eyes. I run my fingers along the spines of the books, reading each title with care as if greeting a dear friend. I am, in truth. For here I am amongst my true peers. Men and women who’ve been swept beneath the tides of love, overcome by its grief and madness, in all its glorious stupidity. Of course, the characters in these books always end up with their lovers, safe and happy on the other side of scandal, betrayal, and heartache. Unlike myself.
Perhaps that’s why I choose to disappear into books. It’s a place where I can feel seen for who I am and everything I’ve been through. Where I’m not judged for the things I’ve done or the messes I’ve made. And in these books, I can give myself the ending that was stolen from me. The ending I no longer believe exists in real life.
Love.
Just like my outward persona, it’s a lie.
I continue my exploration of my silent companions, adding each intriguing new title to a pile on the floor, until I discover a spine that I know is immediately out of place. I don’t even need to read the title to know the book has been misshelved, for its bland color and unwieldy size say anything but romance. Such a crime could never be pinned on Mr. Cordell. No, this is the result of careless shoppers, the kind that make my blood boil. With a grumble, I remove the interloper and place it on top of my books. Seeing how tall my pile has grown tells me my shopping trip should probably be at an end, otherwise I’ll surpass my week’s allowance and end up owing Mr. Cordell at my next visit.
I gather my merchandise, plus the wayward book, and head for the counter. Only now do I realize how busy the shop has become while I’ve been enchanted in my quiet corner. Couples stroll arm in arm, browsing the shelves as if they are looking at fragile artifacts and not dear friends. A pair of young women chat near a table of books, idly handling them without so much as looking at what they touch. I’ve never seen the shop with more than one or two patrons visiting at a time, and now it’s downright crowded. If this is what it’s going to be like now that Vernon’s social scene is in full swing, I must begin my visits to the bookshop much earlier in the morning.
Making a beeline for Mr. Cordell, I quicken my pace. I’m nearly there when—
“Infinite Suffering in the Garden of Happenstance.” A young man, perhaps a few years older than I, blocks my path, eyes not on my face but my chest. Or the books that cover it.
I pull my merchandise closer, heart racing at his unexpected proximity. Not out of excitement, but a fleeting terror. I take a few breaths to steady my nerves and back up a step to put space between me and the man. “Excuse me?”
He finally meets my eyes. I admit he’s handsome with his dark hair and eyes, his fashionable black jacket, sky blue waistcoat, and matching cravat. But his looks are marred by the condescending grin he wears, and when he speaks, his voice carries a nasal quality that grates on my ears. “The book,” he says. “The finest piece of Brettonish literature, and I must say, I am delighted to see one so beautiful as you holding it. I know by that alone that you are a woman of supreme breeding and unparalleled intelligence.”
With an inward groan, I realize he’s mistaken the misplaced book as something I’m actually interested in. More irksome than that is his assumption that my level of intelligence can be measured by what I read. “Sir, I—”
“Gavin Aston,” he says with a bow.
I almost laugh. So, he’s Mrs. Aston’s son. What a surprise. “Mr. Aston—”
“And you are?”
I clench my jaw. “Gemma Bellefleur. And I—”
He lifts his chin with what he probably thinks is a charming grin. “Call me Gavin.”
I narrow my eyes. “Mr. Aston,” I say, punctuating each word for emphasis, “I am in a hurry to purchase my books.”
“Ah, yes, how foolish of me.” Before I can react, he takes them from my arms and hefts the stack onto the counter.
I rush after him. “I can carry my own books.”
He pays me no heed. “Allow me to escort you home. You shouldn’t walk in the snow with such heavy merchandise.”
I straighten my posture, bringing us nearly eye to eye. I’m tall for a woman, with broad shoulders and wide hips. It’s what my father calls a sturdy build—an insult, I’m sure, but I take pride in my figure. It helps add strength to my false persona. Compared to me, Mr. Aston is slim and lean. I highly doubt he’s much stronger than I am. “Like I said, I can carry my own books.”
“Then perhaps you can allow me to carry conversation instead? I daresay I’ll find few others in town with intelligence to match mine.”
I turn toward the counter and meet the furrowed brow of Mr. Cordell, whose eyes dart from me to my unwelcome companion. “Mr. Aston,” I say without looking at him, “you assume too much of my intelligence. I assure you, we are not as matched as you think. There is, in fact, a vast discrepancy between us.”
“I appreciate your modesty, but you need not be quite so self-deprecating. It’s clear you are at least my half, if not my equal.”
My hands tremble from the restraint it takes not to shake the sense into him with a punch to the nose. Instead, I attend to my stack of books. With an exaggerated motion, I push the misplaced book across the counter toward Mr. Cordell. “Thiswas misshelved. I will not be buying it, but the others I will take. Oh, and today’s paper, please.”
I refuse to look Mr. Aston’s way, although I can feel his gaze burning into me.
Mr. Cordell nods and begins to draw up my bill, gaze flashing toward Mr. Aston time and again, who still, for whatever saintsforsaken reason, has yet to get the hint and leave. The old bookseller hands me my bill, as well as my books and newspaper, all bundled neatly together with string. “That will be twelve quartz chips, my dear.”
I retrieve my purse and shell out twelve pieces of clear, crystalline quartz—the currency of the Winter Court—and collect my books.
Mr. Aston holds out his arm, all smiles. “Shall we?”
