“Now I’ve been added to Mr. Fletcher’s considerations,” he says, voicing my exact revelation. He winks. “I hope you won’t hold it against me when I win.”
Retorts burn my chest, but I’m still too shocked. My words lack the bite I wish they had. “You…you don’t know you’re going to win.”
“Oh, but I do. I need this. I’m getting it.”
I scoff. “Is this what yourcompetitioncomment was about? Because you’ve seen me as a rival from the start?”
He tilts his head to the side and gives me a patronizing look. “Oh, Ed, you’ll have to sell a lot more books to be my rival.”
Before I can react, he lifts a finger, taps me lightly on the nose, and saunters off.
My hands curl into fists. I have every intention of marching after him and giving him a piece of my mind when the back door opens.
Mr. Phillips pulls up short. “Ah, you’re here. Is the signing over?”
Daphne slinks out of the back room after him. “Do you ever look at your pocket watch or is it just for decoration?”
The publicist chuckles, then gives me a dimpled grin. “Well, then. How about we have drinks and dinner on Fletcher-Wilson’s tour budget?”
CHAPTER FIVE
The last thing I want is to have dinner with my new nemesis, but I don’t know what the alternative is if I refuse. I’m still new to this situation. I’ve never been on a book tour before nor have I had a publicist. Mr. Phillips seems to serve as a tour manager as well, and if he’s in charge of our room, board, and meal budget, then it’s probably best that I stay at his side. Or at least until I’m comfortable enough to go off on my own.
I have my own money, at least, thanks to my generous publishing advance fromThe Governess and the Fae. Eleven pouches full of eleven different currencies—one for each of the fae courts—are packed in my carpet bag.
But…tour budget. I really should take advantage of that, shouldn’t I?
Dinner turns out to be delightful, served in the public dining room at the quaint inn we’ll be staying at. I’ve already seen my modest bedroom and confirmed the arrival of all my luggage. Which means I am indeed wearing shoes once more. I never found out what Mr. Haywood did with my uncomfortable pair, but good riddance.
If only I could be rid of him too. I glare at him whenever I unintentionally meet his eyes from across the dining table, but he remains perfectly unflustered. Ignoring me, aside from that infuriating smirk of his. At least I don’t have to talk to him. There are plenty of others at our table to engage his attention. Mr. Phillips invited the shopkeeper, Arwen, to join us once Flight of Fancy was closed for the evening, and she brought along two friends who work at nearby shops.
I haven’t interacted much with the working class, aside from at my local public house, where I like to write with a pint of ale. Most of my other interactions come from the occasional visits to my parents’ estate. My family isn’t aristocratic by any means, but they are wealthy. Were they not, I don’t think they would have entertained my vocation as a writer. As the middle daughter with six siblings, all of whom either married well or went into business well, I am just expendable enough to be granted some freedoms. I live in my own cramped apartment above a butcher’s shop in the city. So long as I keep my own home and don’t rely on my family’s funds, they won’t pressure me to marry. If I ever did move back to the family estate, I’d undoubtedly be forced to marry, for women in Bretton are considered the property of their parents, brothers, or husbands well into adulthood. Unless they have a career like me, which isn’t commonplace. But I, the expendable middle daughter, get to devote my entire life to writing.
Yet, as free as I am, this trip is teaching me just how small my world was before. Not just because I come from Bretton or because I’ve never met fae people or talking creatures before, but because I’ve missed out on perfectly ordinary experiences, like dining with shopkeepers or staying at an inn. Excitement bubbles inside me. I know that this—all I’m getting to experience—will make my writing richer.
After dinner, the dining room grows crowded, the atmosphere shifting into lively frivolity as drinks are favored over food. Scents of smoke and alcohol infuse the air, mingling with the laughter and chatter. The others have gone to cavort with strangers while I remain alone at our table, nursing my second pint of ale. It tastes different from the ale back home, but it’s delightful, crisp, and refreshing as it fills me with a calm buoyancy.
It’s exactly what I need to keep less pleasant thoughts from consuming me. The publishing contract. The promise of fame. The prestige I’ve been fighting for my entire career. The fact that I might have already lost my chance. Mr. Haywood is clearly superior to me when it comes to sales. Daphne said so herself; he’s already had a head start. Even Monty stated Mr. Haywood will most likely garner the most sales by the end of the tour, despite his confidence in me. If I can’t find a way to sell more books than him…
I force the stressful considerations from my mind and slump lower in my chair, glad no one is paying attention to me or my undignified posture. My notebook is open to my playful entry entitledFourteen Ways to Die in Faerwyvae: An Illustrated Guide. I’m revising my sketch of the wisp to make Way to Die Number Seven more accurate when a shadow falls over my page. The dining room is already rather dim thanks to the dark oak walls and minimal lighting fixtures that hang from the ceilings. Clenching my jaw, I ready my glare and look over my shoulder. Sure enough, there stands William Haywood, a glass of violet wine in hand.
“Cute,” he says flatly, arching a brow at my drawing.
I close my notebook. “Is pestering me really so satisfying that you had to seek me out?”
He scoffs. “I’m not here for you, Ed.”
My cheeks heat. “Do not call me Ed.”
“Weenie, then?”
I whirl fully around. My voice trembles with the restraint it takes to keep from shouting. “You will not call me Weenie either. It’s Miss Danforth to you.”
He leans down and props his forearms—his very bare and admittedly impressive forearms—on the back of the chair beside me. No longer in his suit jacket, his sleeves have been rolled to his elbows. His cravat hangs loose around his neck, his waistcoat is open, and the collar of his shirt has been unbuttoned to his clavicle. There’s a flush to his complexion that speaks of his inebriation.
“Oh, come now,” he says, voice low and poisonously sweet. He tilts his head in a boyish manner, and I’m struck by the realization that I haven’t a clue how old he is. He looks close to Monty’s or my age, but fae aging is still a mystery to me. My brochure explained that most fae cease aging when they reach maturity. For all I know, Mr. Haywood could be anywhere from five-and-twenty to two thousand. He takes a sip of his wine, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “We’re going to become far too familiar over the course of the month to keep such formalities like surnames.”
I blame the ale, but I find myself momentarily disarmed. “Then, if you must, you can call me Edwina.”
