I internalized a squeal of panic. I should have seen that coming. The truth was, he wasn’t. Sherry Whitehorse used his character to push the plot along when needed, but otherwise he was well overshadowed by the heartthrob Ironclaw.
“Things are a bit different in person than what the books describe.”
“How so?”
“I mean, there’s lots of similarities,” I stalled. “Your hair is the same—it’s described as longish and very dark. You’re Ironclaw’s cousin. You control the queen’s affairs and write all the contracts.” I brightened. “You discovered the cover-up at Held Camp because that page in the ledgers was missing. Remember how you looked at the marbling on the edge of the book and noticed the broken pattern?”
Draw smiled again, more eagerly this time. “That little thing made it in the books? I uncover missing ledger pages nearly every day. Everyone’s trying to escape their full share of taxes.”
“I think it was mentioned because Ironclaw was there.”
His smile evaporated. “I see. And Ironclaw is the main character?”
“I suppose if there had to be, like...amaincharacter, yeah.”
Draw rolled his eyes. “Taller than the average man, can lift half a cow, and that makes you worthy of being a hero? If you’ve noticed, dear Dottie, my cousin is lacking a bit on the analytical side.”
“Sure, but he has you to figure out the mysteries. You make the story good.”
Draw didn’t want to hear my praise though and pushed again. “But what warrants Ironclaw being the focal character?”
“I suppose because women like reading about him.”
“I see, and are most of the readers women?” He didn’t wait for me to answer, putting the pieces together. “And you’re the biggest fan...oh, dear ships at sea. I knew it. You’re in love with Ironclaw.” Draw drew his hands to his chest as if clutching pearls.
“Noooo,” was all I said. It was all too true, but somehow it bothered me. I didn’t want Draw to think of me that way.
“You’ve read enough about me to knowI knowwhen I’m being lied to.” He covered his face with his hands. “Ironclaw,” he said disdainfully. “Fit for the meat market if not the study.”
“Well, readers have other favorites too. Sir Aaron Key, for instance, he gets quite a few point of view chapters. Even the Master of Horse has one or two. With you, well, it’s likely you don’t have any because you’re gay. Women readers like your character—you—but they can’t visualize themselves with you.”
“What did you say?”
“Erm, visualize. Like think about themselves with—”
“I know what you meant with all your subtly. No, I mean, you said I was gay?”
A spark of fear flew through me. Perhaps I’d been offensive or flippant, and that was totally on me. “Oh! You should know that’s a wonderful quality, celebrated even, where I’m from.”
Draw shook his head in disappointment. “Condensed to a trope on a page. Lady Dottie, I’m not gay.” Something flashed in his eyes. “I enjoy the mind first...which means all people, or at least those able to match wits with me. Why would the writer narrow her representation of me?”
“Despite what I said, representation isn’t...great where I’m from, and there’s a bisexual character in book one, the Lady of Elms Grove. Maybe the author didn’t want to repeat the demographic?”
“My legacy,” he groaned and slumped down in his chair.
––––––––
DO YOU THINK THE AUTHORis watching us right now?” It was the first time Draw had spoken in a while. The room had cooled very slightly and I’d moved a tiny throw pillow in front of me so I could half lean on it, chin in my palm as I rethought where I’d gone wrong and how I could make it up to Draw.
“Sorrel said the author died. A different writer finished the series, a man.”
“Died?” He seemed to be about to say more but shook his head. “This other writer then, you could meet him. Tell him...about me. Make him write me better. I want to be one of those point of view characters you were talking about.”
“I don’t even know the man’s name. If I email the literary agent, they’re going to think I’m nuts—”
“Lady Dottie.” Draw suddenly looked invigorated. “You said you’re here to fix the story.”
Draw slid from his chair to a footstool by my side. Even seated so low, our faces were nearly of a height. I felt hyperaware of my humid hair and my sweat-damp nightgown now cooling.
