Draw and I arrived at camp to find it well into set up and I convinced a stewardess to hold the reins while I changed back into my maroon dress, then took Peanut Butter to the makeshift stable myself. Around me, most horses were hobbled or tied to tree trunks, settled in to rest for the night. There was some invisible rule about which horse could stand by which horse that only the Master of Horse understood, and Peanut Butter’s chosen place was alongside a short chestnut. They seemed friendly with each other, the chestnut nickering to Peanut Butter when we first approached and now the two horses were eating side by side.
I hummed as dislodged dust swept up around Peanut Butter as I groomed him, the air speckled with remnants of our trip.
My hands felt silty, but Peanut Butter’s tan coat was finally cleaned of road dust.
“Good boy.” I patted his shoulder.
He was head down, nose to the grass as if he expected to produce a croquet-ready lawn within the hour. I patted him again. “Night, buddy.”
I deposited the thick bristly brush in one of the tack buckets. There were a number of other instruments inside I didn’t care to know the use of, but back when Ariana was still collegial with me, she had suggested I do some of the grooming myself to forge my bond with Peanut Butter.
A man stepped from under the trees as if he had been looking for me. The late evening sun was golden around him, the moment between late afternoon and twilight. He was tall with light skin and medium brown hair and wore a gray doublet with a fine chain around his neck. Definitely had a bit of theLandsomecover look to him. He was recognizable as a member of the camp, but I didn’t know his role or name. “A letter for you, Lady Mayfair.” He held out a small scroll.
My world narrowed to that letter. There was only one person who would be sending me a message—Sorrel.
I took it eagerly but as the man made to leave, I caught up to him. His strides were long, and I felt like one of the goats that grazed among the horses as I trotted at his side. “Are you a messenger? Where did you get this?”
He looked at the letter in my hand, lips slightly pinched, but didn’t stop walking. “Amelia the armorer asked me to deliver this, but no—” He sighed. “I’m not amessenger. When I refused to run her errand, she threatened to trim the fletching off my arrows. Now, if you’ll excuse—”
“Do you know where Amelia got the letter?” I held it up, as if that would clarify things.
My insistence too much to politely ignore, the man did an abrupt about-face and folded his hands behind his back as if he could imagine nothing better than to stand on the edge of the pasture answering to the witch’s apprentice. “I couldn’t say, my lady.”
“Why did Amelia ask you to deliver it?” I knew I was being a pest, but the arrival of the letter opened up a big question: Where did it come from? Not just as in “from Sorrel”, but as in how did this letter take physical form in Landsome? Did she come and deliver it? Magic it out of thin air?
The not-messenger raised his brows. “I don’t know. Perhaps my luck dried up. Perhaps I was cursed by a bog witch. Perhaps our armorer simply sought to try my patience.”
His words were out of sorts with his overly patient demeanor.
“But, I mean: Who are you?”
“Lord Pierce of Alton.”
Oh.Well, that didn’t clear up anything. I didn’t know who Lord Pierce of Alton was and this wasn’t answering any of my questions about Sorrel’s magic.
“Okay, thanks for your help, Lord Pierce.”
He inclined his head slightly at my dismissal, then resumed his path away from me with vigor.
I sank to a step stool and cracked the golden wax seal with relish.
––––––––
DEAREST DOTTIE,
You’re making so much progress! You not only eased that awful ghostwriter’s addiction to violent battle campaigns, but you now have your very own book boyfriend.
Frankly, I’m quite amazed you haven’t used your second summoning. It seems you cannot only survive in Landsome but are thriving!
You must not even recognize the Dottie of last week.
Wow, speaking of last week, there’s a little thing I want to confess that’s been weighing on me—it’s not exactly within protocol if you know what I mean.
Here it is: I’m the one that made your phone call Sara the night you were getting into the spirit ofLandsome Roads, you know...the TV debacle.
Sorrel? It wasSorrelwho called Sara?
I had opened the letter with a bit of trepidation as to what Sorrel would reveal, but I was no longer scared. I was pissed. Sorrel, my magical Fairy Bookmother called my coworker while I was repeating the sexy dialogue of a TV show.
