I bite back a squeak, my uncomfortable shoes snagging on the lace hem of my too-long skirt. I trip but manage to catch myself on the rail before I fall completely. Damn this dress and all its lacy layers.
My spectacles slide down my nose as I right myself. I shove the bridge up and regain my composure, but to my humiliation, I’ve caught the attention of a cluster of shop patrons closest to the upper rail. I give them a forced smile, then resume myascent. Daphne has already reached the top, where she scurries in between the many patrons’ legs and skirt hems until she’s out of sight.
I don’t bother rushing after her and instead take my time reaching the top step. Once there, I assess the loft. The walls are painted in the same blue and white as they are downstairs, but the bookshelves lining the walls are only chest high. The ceiling is arched and strung with ropes of orb-shaped lights. Their glow is more luminescent than the gaslight we have in Bretton. Faerwyvae is known for its use of electricity, fueled by the ley lines of fae magic that crisscross the isle. Above the strings of lights flutter dozens of folded paper birds. While the flying book I witnessed downstairs was an illusion of practical air magic, the paper birdsmustbe enchanted.
Something snags my hem. I glance down to find Daphne sitting back on her haunches, her clawed paw tugging my skirt. “Come along. Your table is back here.”
She darts through the crowd, and this time I try to keep up with her.Trybeing the operative term, for she’s small and agile, while I’m short but very much human-sized amongst a sea of figures who all seem to be a head taller than me. They pay me no heed as I weave between them, as all are either locked in conversation with their neighbors or fixated on the back of the room, eager expressions on their faces. Most appear human, an even mix of men and women, though I catch sight of a few pointed ears, vibrant hair or skin, or animalistic features like whiskers or antlers. There isn’t a distinct line, but at least half seem to be waiting for their turn to reach the back of the room, while the others casually loiter about. This is the first time I’ve seen such a vibrant and social atmosphere in a bookstore. I suppose this is also the first time I’ve been to a book signing. I’m so overwhelmed I almost miss the books many are holding—a clothbound volume in green with gold foil details.
Could that be…
Is thatmybook?
Are they waiting forme?
There’s a greater chance they’re waiting for my tour companion—you know, the author who’s here already—but that is far less exciting of a prospect.
Still, the thought of meeting my readers has me pushing toward the back of the room with less trepidation, offering apologies to those I jostle in my rush. The closer I get, the denser the crowd. I can no longer simply slip between the clusters of figures and must firmly tap those in front of me on the shoulder and kindly ask them to step aside. At the disgruntled looks I get, I explain, “I’m the other author. I’m trying to reach my table.”
That results in furrowed brows but reluctant acquiescence. My voice is nearly hoarse from this constant refrain until only a few figures stand between me and the two tables I can barely make out just ahead. The tables are set between bookcases that span from wall to wall, and the only way to get behind the two tables is through a gap in between them. A gap which is thoroughly blocked. I glance from the three chatting gentlemen to the left and the tall woman to the right. If one of these four would move a few inches one way or the other, I could skirt around and reach my destination. I choose the woman and reach for her shoulder, preparing to tap it, but before my hand can make contact, she bends forward, leaving my fingers in midair.
“Will you sign this too? It’s for my sister.” The woman retrieves a copy of the green-and-gold book from a bag on the floor. Then another. “And this? It’s for my cousin.”
I think she adds a third book to the stack but I can’t be sure because my attention has been swallowed by the man who sits behind the table. He’s tall, but not in the way that almost everyone seems tall compared to me. Even with him seated, even with his posture tilted slightly to the side in an aura of casualgrace, I can tell he’d tower over me. His shoulders are broad, hugged by his emerald-and-sage suit. His cream silk cravat is slightly loose, showing off the cords in his neck and the angles of his decidedly masculine throat. Then there’s his hair. Its messy style conjures images of bedroom activities but with a neatness that suggests every wayward strand was placed with precision. His strands are a shade so dark they can’t seem to decide whether they’re slate, black, or violet. They sweep over the pointed tips of his ears—ears that are decorated in an array of gold piercings, from studs to cuffs to delicate hoops. My gaze drops to his eyes, a hue so aggravatingly blue I could weep.
Thisis William Haywood? The poet? My tour companion?
I don’t know whether to be elated or envious. No wonder the loft is so crowded. They’re all here to seehim, this…goddamn work of art.
The woman before me finally straightens, her stack of books now as high as her chest. I shake my head to clear it and prepare again to tap her on the shoulder. Despite my momentary distraction, I was able to catch a better glimpse of my table. Even now I notice a stack of mauve books growing behind the three still-chatting gentlemen, and the tiny, clawed paw that sets them there. Daphne must be unpacking a crate of my books. The previously empty table certainly speaks to my publisher’s lack of optimism over my arrival today.
Clearing my throat, I tap the woman’s shoulder at last.
She ignores me.
I tap it again, but it’s to no avail. She’s prattling on and on to Mr. Haywood. I can no longer see him behind her, but his deep baritone reaches my ears as he utters sounds of interest, the scratch of his pen sliding over paper.
With a huff, I turn toward the trio of men instead. “Excuse me,” I say, tapping the nearest on the shoulder.
He shifts to the side, but instead of facing me, he faces my table. His attention snags on the stack of books. Gathering the topmost one in hand, he reads the title out loud. “The Governess and the Fae.”
My heart flips in my chest at hearing my book’s name read aloud. I’m so desperate to see the cover, to hold it in my hands for the first time. I sidle closer to the man, prepared to force my way between the two tables if I must. Just then, the man with my book whirls toward the poet. I leap to the side so as not to collide with him and bump into another figure instead. The girl with the mountain of books is gone, but the next woman in line has taken her place.
“Excuse me, I was here first,” she says, shooting daggers at me with her eyes.
I wave my hands. “No, you don’t understand?—”
“Is this one of yours?” asks the man holding my book.
I abandon the woman and face him, a glowing grin stretching my lips. “Why, yes?—”
“Of course it’s not mine,” Mr. Haywood says.
My mouth snaps shut. The man had been asking the poet, not me.
Mr. Haywood reclines in his seat, a crooked smirk on his lips. “The Governess and the Fae,” he says in a mocking tone. “Do you think I’d write such smut and drivel?”
The man chuckles and tosses my book back on the table without a second glance.
