I scoff. “That’s certainly a name.”
“Isn’t it? What’s yours again? Daffy?”
“Daphne,” I snipe back, but her mispronunciation sends an unexpected spear through my heart. Only one person has ever dared to call me Daffy. If he were here now, I’m sure he’d have something annoying to say about my situation. And yet…it would probably cheer me up too.
You can’tweaselyour way out this pickle, Daffy Dear, is what I bet he’d say. He always loved his stupid puns.
To which I’d argue that I’m not a weasel; I’m a pine marten. Furthermore, I’m in seelie form now and?—
Why am I arguing with an imaginary Monty Phillips? That idiot got himself fired almost a year ago and I haven’t seen my former colleague since.
“I waited at your desk since dawn,” the newly christened Araminta says, “ready to read queries over your shoulder, but you never showed at your usual time.”
“Yes, well, I’m not working in editorial today,” I say under my breath as I take up a stick of graphite and rework some of the lines on my canvas. Fridays are the one day of the week I get to work on my commission. A commission I’m growing increasingly convinced I don’t deserve.
“You should have stuck to editorial. You’re really, reeeeeally bad at art.” Araminta tumbles through the air in a renewed fit of cackles. “I’m glad I found you today. This is so much better than reading queries.”
I glower at the tiny creature. Who knew an infestation of harmless bookworms would grow so troublesome? When the bookbinders first spotted the adorable fae worms napping on stacks of paper at Fletcher-Wilson’s printing warehouse, they were charmed. Bookworms are a type of book sprite—the spirit of fiction made physical—and are drawn to spectacular prose. We saw it as a blessing. None of us knew some of the bookworms would find their way to our main office and metamorphose into absolute terrors. For weeks now these evolved winged book sprites have been tormenting us with misdemeanors ranging from dog-earing pages to cracking spines to absolute war crimes like spoiling the endings of manuscripts or—like the sprite who plagues me now—fancying themselves critics.
One would think I’d have more patience for the wicked creatures, considering I’m fae myself, but I don’t. Were I in my pine marten form, I’d have eaten this snack-sized menace without remorse. The fact that I haven’t snatched her from the air and bitten off her tiny cackling head is a miracle.
I eye her through slitted lids as she points and laughs at my canvas with gusto, wondering if perhaps I might be alittlehungry. But, alas, murder is not on today’s agenda. Maybe it’s because I prefer cooked food when I’m in seelie form.
Or maybe it’s because the sprite isn’t wrong. My sketchisugly.
Ignoring Araminta as best I can, I make a few more corrections with my graphite, then step back to assess my work again. My eyes wander over the delicate lines that form the two partially undressed figures I’ve drawn. The female looks gorgeous with her windswept hair and languid posture. Her lips are parted in a sensualO, the bodice of her gown pooling around her waist to reveal a heaving bosom nearly spilling from her corset. The hem of her ballgown is hiked up to reveal gartered stockings encircling thick thighs. She’s everything a cover-worthy heroine should be. I shift my attention to the male figure and my mood sours. “It’s the hands,” I say, pointing to where the hero grips the heroine’s hips.
Araminta taps her chin as she hovers in front of the canvas. She tilts her head this way and that before another burst of mirth escapes her lips. “Those aren’t hands. Those arepaws.”
Alarm rushes through me as I inspect my work closer. She’s right. My hero has not human metacarpals and phalanges but thick meaty paws.
“How the hell did that happen?” I set about frantically reworking his digits, desperate to turn them into the strong groping hands I was aiming for. My efforts result in an indecipherable blur of graphite.
“Before you stress solely over his paws, you should probably save some anxiety for the rest of him.”
“The rest of him is—” I swallow my words as I take in further evidence of the monstrosity I created. I blink several times, hoping that the next time I open my eyes I’ll see something else on the canvas. Instead, I only see more and more flaws. Not only does my hero have paws, but his torso is too long. His legs are too short. Overall, he’s rather bendy and fleshy. Almost like…
“A weasel,” Araminta says. “You drew a man shaped like a weasel.”
I stammer before I manage to find coherence. “Not entirely. He…he is almost human-shaped.”
“Almost?” The sprite flutters to the corner of my canvas where she lands. Sprawling on her belly, she kicks her legs in time with the flap of her papery wings. “You’ve clearly never been with a man if that’s what you think they look like naked.”
I give her a withering look. “Like you know any better than I do. You only emerged from your chrysalis, what, two weeks ago?”
She shrugs. “I’ve read a lot of interesting books since then, so I know plenty. What’s the word you use to describe them? Smutty?”
“Yes, well I’ve read even more smutty books than you. And Ihavebeen with a man.Pluralmen.”
Araminta looks impressed for once. “At the same time?”
“No, not at the same time.” I purse my lips, sealing away the fact that none of my sexual exploits involved much time assessing my lovers’ goods. Or pleasure, for that matter. Nothing worth inspiring art.
“How did you even get this job?”
“I’ll have you know I was personally recommended by Edwina Danforth.” I turn my nose up at the sprite before whirling on my heel to rifle through my leather satchel. Once I find my sketchbook, I flip through the pages. “She’s one of my dearest friends and asked me to illustrate the new covers for her most popular book series.”
“Favoritism, then? Not talent?”
