The man untucks his hands from his pockets, glancing from me to my carpet bag and back again. He flashes a disarming grin that reveals a dimple in his cheek. “You wouldn’t happen to be Edwina Danforth, would you?”
I straighten and attempt to smooth my hair, only to find my tresses are still tangled in my spectacles. “I am,” I say with as much poise as one can muster while blowing hair from one’s face.
He takes another drag from his cigarillo. “I didn’t think you were coming.”
“I know I’m late. I’m terribly sorry. Are you…here for the signing?”
His grin deepens as he closes the distance between us and extends his free hand. “Monty Phillips, Junior Publicist at Fletcher-Wilson.”
“Oh!” I take his hand with enthusiasm. Fletcher-Wilson is my publisher in Faerwyvae. “You must be in charge of the tour. Please tell me today’s signing hasn’t been canceled.”
“It hasn’t.” His smile briefly falters. “Did you receive our last telegram?”
Oh no. Not that tone of voice. I can’t help but assume bad news is coming. “On the ship, yes. I was informed the tour would continue as planned, and that I’d only miss two dates: the signings for the Summer Court and Sea Court.”
“Right, but we sent a follow-up telegram to the Glassbeach Hotel last week.”
My stomach sinks. “The Glassbeach Hotel was full by the time I was cleared by customs. I was relocated to the Pink Swan.”
“Ah.” He rubs his brow. “Well, it’s no matter. I can tell you now. Even though Mr. Fletcher decided not to postpone or cancel the tour, he felt it was prudent to make use of the signings you’d miss, as well as secure an alternate author, should you fail to arrive at all.”
It takes me several seconds to process what he could mean. “Are…are you saying I’ve been replaced? But I’m here now. I came all this way.” I snap my mouth shut, determined not to say a word more. Discomfort bubbles in my chest, a familiar sensation that always serves as a precursor to me shoving my metaphorical foot in my mouth. I hate being misunderstood and struggle not to defend myself. Yet I’ve learned time and timeagain that I’m better off being patient and expressing myself clearly, slowly, and concisely?—
“I promise, I would have arrived on time if I could.” The words fly from my lips at a rapid pace, and as much as I want to swallow them back, I can’t stop now that I’ve begun. “I wasn’t expecting the shipwreck. Though calling it a shipwreck is an exaggeration, I’ll admit. But a storm really did hit while my ship was crossing the channel between Bretton and Faerwyvae. Our journey was waylaid for days, and by the time we corrected course and reached the isle, we docked at the wrong port. As you can imagine, it created a nightmare ordeal for customs processing. I was stuck in my cabin for almost an entire week while they sorted out the mess.”
“Miss Danforth?—”
“And I know I’m late today, which is unforgivable. It’s only partially my fault.”
He opens his mouth but seems to think better of it, taking a long drag from his cigarillo instead.
Words continue to pour from my lips. “You see, I asked a will-o-the-wisp for directions. Please don’t lecture me; I already feel foolish enough. I was here an hour early…before I got lost. And before that, I was going to arrive an entirethreehours early. But then I missed my stop. That wasn’t…well, that was my fault too. I had this brilliant idea for a story, and since it involved fae characters, I thought Mr. Fletcher might be interested in a new proposal?—”
“Miss Danforth,” Mr. Phillips says, his tone firm this time, “you’re not being replaced.”
The discomfort leaves my chest and I’m finally able to cease my string of excuses. “I’m not?”
“No, you’ve merely gained a tour companion.” He steps to the side and waves toward an A-frame sign near the bookshop door. At the top reads:The Heartbeats Tour. Beneath thatis my name, Edwina Danforth, followed by another, William Haywood.
My mouth twitches, begging to frown, but I try to force my lips into a steady grin. As much as it rankles my pride to share what was supposed to bemytour, it’s better than being replaced entirely. I glance from the sign to Mr. Phillips.
His dimple-framed smile returns, as if that’s supposed to placate me. He halfheartedly flourishes his hand. “You write steamy romance, he writes bittersweet poetry. You’re a match made in heaven. Like you, he’s one of Fletcher-Wilson’s newest and brightest authors.”
Well, I do like being called new and bright, even if the compliment was placed in conjunction with one for this William Haywood fellow. I study the sign once more, reading the title out loud. “The Heartbeats Tour.”
Mr. Phillips takes my bag from the ground and tilts his head toward the door. “Copies of your book are inside and waiting to be signed. Are you ready?”
That refills my well of pride, bringing with it a spark of excitement. I haven’t even seen my newest book yet, and I’ve never so much as signed a copy for anyone who wasn’t family.
Right. This is the most important day of my life. I can do this. I can…share my tour. It’s not like I’ll lose anything. I already have a publishing contract. What’s the worst that can happen?
I take a deep breath. “I’m ready.”
With a nod, Mr. Phillips turns toward the bookshop—only to whirl back to face me. Frowning, he gestures toward the side of his face, near his eye. “Do you want to…”
I blink at him before I understand what he’s miming. Only then do I recall the hair still wound around the arm of my spectacles. “Oh, right.” Blushing furiously, I unravel my tangled strands, tearing a few straight from my scalp in the process.
As I replace my lenses, I catch sight of Monty Phillips shaking his head in clear amusement. He takes another drag of his cigarillo, then disposes of the butt in a small metal receptacle by the door. With a wink, he says, “This is going to be a very interesting tour, Miss Danforth.”
