Gratitude poured off him, as well as a hint of arrogance, our intensity transitioning into triumph. “A good occupation indeed,” he said.
I put my hand on Draw’s upper thigh and relaxed. I felt fully comfortable as if I’d never have to pull a blanket over myself again. Just lie and let him look at me. I knew that wasn’t a good idea though. I should pee to avoid a UTI. And there was something else I needed to tell him. My voice felt rough in the quiet space we had built. “Don’t worry, I can’t get pregnant here.”
Draw wiped sweat from his chest. “That’s handy magic. I was going to suggest securing a tea but if Fairy Bookmother magic will—”
Oh!I bolted upright.
I knew what I had to do next.
“I have to talk to Sorrel!”
Chapter Nine: Phone A Friend
Iburst into the moonlitclearing, lantern in hand. I had redressed in my maroon dress and the plain brown jacket Draw had given me. It was cold after the humid warmth of Draw’s tent and definitely chillier than anything I’d yet experienced in Landsome. My hair was damp at the back of my neck, and I wished for a scarf.
The inky woods were worth braving though. I needed to talk to my Fairy Bookmother and a tent surrounded by people who thought I was magic wouldn’t have done for the type of conversation I needed to have.
“Sorrel,” I called to the forest. I lifted my lantern as if I’d spot her approaching on foot between two trees.
“Lovely evening, isn’t it, Dottie dear?”
I spun.
Sorrel.
Surrounded by the dark of night, I had been scared she wouldn’t come. Scared I had displeased her in some way. After working so hard to change the plot of the book and still unable to wash away my biggest problem, I was acutely aware how powerless I was. And if Sorrel decided not to show up or was otherwise delayed, I was no different than a serving girl in Landsome.
But she came.
“I’ll admit, I expected the second summoning to come much sooner, but you’ve done well for yourself, Dottie.” Sorrel’s upper half was floating in midair, fuzzy around the edges like a ghost. Her straw-colored hair cascaded in romantic ringlets over one shoulder, the kind a real person armed with a generic curling iron could never achieve. Her gown matched her hair in color but was structured in contrast to her loose curls. An amethyst was fastened at the midpoint of her deep neckline. Her hands were up in front of her as she ticked off my successes. “You’ve infiltrated the royal entourage, secured Lady Issa more POV chapters, introduced a charming young character in need of magical training, and, most important, sliced out the torrent of gruesome battle scenes that persnickety ghostwriter saddled us fans with. I can’t wait—”
She was buttering me up, but I wasn’t having it.
“You,” I barked, “called Sara.”
Sorrel stopped midsentence and the apples of her cheeks fell. I’d never seen her at a loss for words.
