“I give you my word,” I say, too loudly. “I’m afraid I’m in something of a rush this afternoon, but I’ll absolutely be back tomorrow morning.” Honeyrose hands over ten coins, and I hold out my hand for the book. The old lady runs her own ancient hand over it almost lovingly. I swallow, pull my hand back, and wait. It’s a good thing I spent years learning how to school my features; if the old lady were to look up at me, she’d see nothing but reassuring calm in my expression. I am, I need not mention, an expert at sitting through long speeches by local dignitaries.
Finally, the old lady takes the money from Honey and hands the book to me. I do a very good job not hugging it to myself.
“Books can change your life, young lady,” she says, almost mistily. “Each book is a dream, a cathedral, a temple to the gods. Treat them well, and they will love you in the way no lover, no friend, no parent ever can.”
My expression only slips a little at this.
“Thank you, and I promise I’ll be back tomorrow at…when did you say you open?”
“Heavens, yes, you did ask—I’m always here, my dear; I live in the back. Simply ring the bell if the door is locked.”
I dip a curtsy and thank her and then, not daring a glance at Honeyrose, hold my book to my chest and walk with as much stately grace as I can through the maze of books and out into the little town. I climb back into the coach, and after a moment, Honeyrose joins me.
She arches an eyebrow at me, but says nothing.
“I really appreciate it, Honey,” I say.
“You have twenty minutes until the ceremony,” she says. “Just enough time to put on a formal gown and do something about your hair.”
Chapter 3
“And what do your parents think of the new trade agreement with Mezothin?”
The dracone speaking to me is a very handsome older gentleman, husband of the Lord Mayor, and clearly searching for some new topic of conversation, now that we’ve exhausted weather, hills, sheep, and stone masonry.
“I believe they’re all very pleased with it,” I say, not really having any idea what my parents or sister think of the new trade agreement with Mezothin. I shift in my seat and my corset creaks. The gown I’m wearing tonight is a particularly restrictive one, requiring particularly restrictive undergarments.
“And next on your itinerary?” the pleasant elderly dwarf next to me says.
“Crofar,” I begin.
“The new bridge, I presume,” the dwarf says. “Lovely; they’ve been at work on that bridge for three years, you know.”
“Last one fell into the gulch,” the dracone to my right adds.
“Washed away in the flood, wasn’t it?” the dwarf says.
“That was the previous bridge, after the great storm of aught seven.”
“Aught nine, surely?”
The dracone and the dwarf are leaning across me now, discussing the issue very seriously. I shift, and my corset creaks. The dwarf glances at me.
“I beg your pardon,” I say, for a polite young woman never admits that her undergarments have been so bold as to announce their presence in polite company.
“You’re too young to remember the floods of aught seven,” the dracone says.
I take a breath. I’m not, actually, but it wouldn’t be polite to correct him.
“Nonsense, Se’eth; she’s twenty-five if she’s a day,” the dwarf says.
“Twenty-two,” I demur.
“Aha! Old enough,” the dwarf crows, poking the dracone across my front.
“Gardia, she’s a royal princess. She’s much too busy to think about floods and whatnot,” the dracone says. “If she does remember them.”
I remember enough of the great floods of aughts seven and nine to discuss them superficially. I rack my brain for something to say about them. Didn’t the great floods seriously imperil the local crop of choice? The one Honeyrose mentioned in the carriage, before the bookstore, just a few short hours ago. Lentils? No, but something small. Henpeas. Abelum. Something…like…
