I slam the book shut, but it’s only Daphne who speaks over my shoulder. I didn’t notice when she leaped onto the back of my chair.
“Hey, I was looking at that.” She still speaks in the same disinterested monotone, so I can’t tell if she’s being serious.
I angle my head over my shoulder and meet her small dark eyes. “Do you read romance novels?”
“The sexier the better. Ah, there they are.” She gestures with her muzzle to the other side of the table.
I face forward in time to see a group of young human women approaching, headed by a plump beauty a few years my junior. All are outfitted in day dresses even more extravagant than mine, their hair styled in popular updos and hats with silk flowers on the brim. They almost look better suited for church than a casual trip to a bookshop.
The leader halts before my table with her hands to her lips. Tears glaze her eyes as she blinks at me. When she speaks, her voice is high and warbling. “You…you’re Edwina Danforth.”
“I am,” I say, sitting up straighter.
The woman finally pulls her hands from her mouth. “It’s really you?”
“It is.”
“You’re my favorite author!”
My heart leaps into my throat. I’ve never heard those words before. “I am?”
“Yes!”
“Me?”
“Yes!”
I want to ask if she’s sure, but her squeal of excitement confirms it. It also draws the attention of those in line at theneighboring table. A fae male with green hair and a top hat sneers in distaste at the spectacle my now sobbing fan is making.
I couldn’t be more pleased.
“They were here earlier,” Daphne says as she leaps from the back of my chair to the table. “You hadn’t arrived yet, so they left. I found them next door at the sweets shop. I’ll see if I can find the others who were hoping to see you. They might still be nearby.”
She leaps onto the floor and scurries toward the stairs.
There really were people eager to see me.
With a triumphant grin, I rise from my chair. William Haywood comes into view over my wall of books. To my great pleasure, he’s watching me with an arched brow. I refuse to meet his gaze.
With exaggerated moves, I uncap my ink pot, flourish my pen, and address my reader. “Can I sign something for you?”
“Please,” she says, fanning her tear-stained cheeks. She turns to her friends, who hand over bundle after bundle of books. My eyes widen as she sets them on my table. Not because there are so many, but because these aren’t just multiple copies of my newest book like the other young woman brought to Mr. Asshole Poet earlier. These are copies of every book I’ve ever written and published.
But only my newest book has been published in Faerwyvae. My previous titles were only published in Bretton.
I meet her eyes with astonishment. “How did you get all these?”
She beams at me. “I found a few at select bookstores around the isle that specialize in imports, but most I had to pay an arm and leg to purchase by mail from Bretton. It took me the better part of a year to collect them all.”
“But…how did you even learn about me to begin with?” My newest book is a recent release. How has she been collecting my books for a year?
“Queen Gemma’s Book Club, of course.”
“Queen Gemma’s Book Club?” I echo. “What is that?”
Her eyes go wide. “You don’t know about it? Queen Gemma is your biggest fan. She’s been praising your books since before she married the Unseelie King of Winter.”
“King of—you’re telling me Queen Gemma is anactualqueen. It’s not just a…cute title? She’s a real live queen who…who likes my books?”
