I snort a laugh. A pretentious title if I’ve ever seen one.
He thrusts the book closer to me.
I glance from the cover to Mr. Haywood’s face. His gaze hovers somewhere above my shoulder, as if he’d rather look anywhere but at me. I shake my head. “No thank you.”
“It’s yours.”
“It’s not.”
“It has your name in it,” he says, finally deigning to meet my gaze. “I signed it for you and everything.”
“I don’t want it.”
“It’s free.”
“I. Don’t. Want. It.”
“Well, I can’t use it now.” He leans forward and sets it on my table, never breaking eye contact even as he leans uncomfortably close. “Not unless someone named Ed asks for a copy.”
I hold my breath, forcing myself not to flinch back. I only exhale once he leans back into his previous position. Belatedly, I process his words. “Ed? What do you meanEd?”
His smirk returns, and this time there’s a wicked edge to it. “That’s all I had time to write before I realized who you were.”
Irritation boils my blood. I lift the book from my table and flourish it before him. “That makes the book even less mine. My name is not Ed. I don’t want a book addressed to someone named Ed. And I certainly don’t want a copy ofyourbook in any form.”
With an indignant huff, I slam the book against his chest, which doesn’t so much as make him stagger back. I let go and he fumbles to catch it before it can fall to the ground.
I take the opportunity to make my exit and march toward the stairs. I’m almost to the first step when his voice grates upon my ears. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Ed?”
I’ve never felt so much indignation in all my life. I whirl around, ready to spew a thousand insulting nicknames of my own, but the words catch in my throat. He’s still slouched against the edge of his table, his book in one hand. In the other, he holds my shoes, which dangle from his fingertips by their laces.
Mortification clogs my throat. It’s bad enough that he knows I’m barefoot. Now he’s touching my shoes. Shoes I ran around town and sweated profusely in.
He looks at me from under his lashes, taunting me with the ever-growing curve of his lips. “I’m not giving back your shoes until you take the book.”
“Then you can keep them both.” On bare feet, I whirl on my heel and storm down the stairs, stomping my fury with every step.
I regretthe stomping as I reach the bottom floor and find the bookstore silent now that the signing is over. Shop patrons pause their perusal of the shelves to cast me bewildered looks. I shrink down, my expression apologetic. Now that I’m down here, I’m not sure where to go. I’d like to be reunited with my luggage and better shoes, if possible. Or at least my carpet bag, where I can find my notebook. I can certainly think of one new entry I’d like to make.
Fourteen Ways to Die in Faerwyvae: Arrogant Fae Poet Edition.
Oh, wouldn’t that be cathartic?
I recall Mr. Phillips mentioning he’d store my bag behind the counter, so I make a beeline to the sylph he’d called Arwen. She’s in the process of wrapping a stack of books in parchment and twine, likely reserving them for a customer. I give her an awkward smile as I reach the counter, unsure how to greet her. Is she the type of fae without a surname? Should I formally introduce myself?
She saves me the trouble. “How was the signing, Miss Danforth?”
“Lovely,” I say, adjusting my spectacles out of anxious habit more than necessity. “Thank you so much for hosting me. Flight of Fancy is a lovely bookshop.”
I pause. Worry my lip. I know we should exchange pleasantries a little longer, but I do so want my bag.
My next question comes out in a rush. “Do you happen to see a carpet bag behind your counter?”
Her blue hair continues to blow on a wind I don’t feel, and I make a mental note to jot down her lovely appearance as possible character inspiration. She shakes her head. “Mr. Phillips took your bag to the back room when he returned with your luggage. The room is behind that door, to the right of the café.”
I glance at the portion of the bookstore set with tables and chairs, only one of which is occupied; its patron is a fluffy raccoon who is reading a book with one hand and sipping tea with the other. Excitement buzzes in my chest. Another unseelie fae! I saw only one other during the signing, a bear in a top hat who came to see Mr. Haywood.
My mood sours at once as I recall my irritating exchange with the poet.
