“And I was sleeping so well, too,” Monty mutters under his breath as he rises from his chair, cigarillo case in hand. He offers me a nod as he notices my presence.
I give him a withering look. “You were insensitive on purpose just now. Why?”
He removes a cigarillo from his case and tucks it behind his ear. Everything from his motions to his expression and his voice seems worn. Tired. “I told you once before, Miss Danforth,” he says on a slow exhale as he heads for the elevator. “I’m no hero.”
Thankfully,the argument doesn’t inflict any lasting damage on our party. Soon Daphne returns from wherever she went to hide, and while she doesn’t go out of her way to talk to Monty more than usual, she doesn’t outright ignore him either. Neither William nor Zane mentions anything to suggest they overheard the argument, which is a relief for Daphne’s sake.
If anyone is acting strange, it’s me and William. I can’t stop the fluttering in my chest every time he meets my eyes. Which is constantly. Across the room when he first woke up this morning. At the dining table when we gathered for lunch. And now, as he and I occupy the two chairs near the unlit hearth. I’m jotting story ideas in my notebook while he reads today’s broadsheets. Time and again, as he turns a page, he glances at me over the top of his paper, his lips curling at one corner. The mere sight of those lips reminds me of how they felt on my skin, and how his fingers felt inside me. The way he pulled me against him and whispered those words in my ear.
Please use me soon. I need more of you.
I find myself smiling back without any reservations, and the same giddy feeling from last night sweeps through me. Over and over I remind myself that I can’t assign any meaning to this fluttery, melty feeling.
Try telling that to my heart.
By afternoon, a messenger arrives with mail. “These are all for you,” Zane says, handing them over to Monty.
“Ah.” He accepts them, thumbing through an assortment of envelopes. “I sent a telegram to Fletcher-Wilson about ourchange of accommodations, so these must have been forwarded from the hotel.”
Monty approaches me and William, handing us each an envelope. William stiffens, abandoning his chair and broadsheets to stand by the wall of windows.
I turn my attention to my own envelope. It’s addressed from Bullard and Sons, my publisher in Bretton, and is postmarked from the week I left for Faerwyvae. It must have taken quite the journey to reach me, considering I have no permanent address in Faerwyvae.
My heart sinks to my stomach as soon as I read the first sentence of the letter inside.
Miss Danforth,
We regret to inform you that Bullard and Sons has decided to terminate your contract on all previously published works and will not accept any new manuscript submissions henceforth. Your works are now out of print and surplus stock will be destroyed.
We wish you the best in your endeavors elsewhere,
John Bullard
I read the letter several times over, my heart plummeting deeper and deeper with every refrain. My contract terms were never favorable to begin with. Bullard and Sons wouldn’t agree to publish me without allowing them to terminate my contract at will. And while Mr. Bullard has never made a secret of how much he frowns upon my genre, he’s never given me a reason tobelieve he’d want to terminate my contract any time soon. He’s always accepted new submissions from me. After haggling over royalties, yes, but?—
My breath catches.
Mr. Bullard accepted new submissions…untilThe Governess and the Fae. He’d made his disdain for the fae clear then, and it opened my eyes to the prevalent hostilities in Bretton regarding Faerwyvae. Could it be…
Daphne hops onto the arm of my chair, and I allow her to read my letter. “Oh dear.”
“Do you think it’s because I came here?” I ask. “Because of the tensions between Bretton and Faerwyvae?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” she says.
With a heavy sigh, I lean back in my chair, eyes unfocused. I never considered coming here could compromise my career back home. Mr. Bullard gave me no warning that something like this could happen. Once I saw how many of my readers had purchased my imported titles from Bretton, I figured my popularity here could only benefit my publisher there.
But I gave him too much credit. Of course a man who refused to offer me higher royalties unless I published under a male pseudonym would be so petty as to punish me for my dealings with the fae.
Daphne lays a consoling paw on my shoulder. “It can’t be all bad. You have your rights back now. You could find another publisher for your previous works.”
She’s right, I suppose, though I’m not so sure I’ll find that opportunity back home. It was already hard enough finding a publisher who’d take me in the first place, and I wouldn’t be surprised if others hold the same prejudice against the fae. Which means Faerwyvae is my best hope. I don’t have many options, considering Fletcher-Wilson is the primary publisher of fiction here, but Mr. Fletcher might be open to acquiring mynow-out-of-print titles. Yet the publishing industry takes time. Time I didn’t realize was slipping away. My income is effectively gone, leaving me with no way to pay for my apartment in Bretton. Sure, I have my advance fromThe Governess and the Fae, plus whatever royalties I’ll eventually make once I earn out said advance, but the exchange rate between Bretton and Faerwyvae is laughable. The money I make here is betterspenthere.
I must make this my home.
I need that contract.
“Fuck.” William’s outburst has me turning in my seat. He stands at the wall of windows, leaning against the wide black frame between two of the enormous panes, head thrown back.
