“Sasha,” I say, putting a little authority into my voice, “if today’s not a great day, why don’t you head home?”
“Home is the last place I want to be.”
“Well, if you won’t tell me what it is but you don’t want to go, why don’t you head upstairs and move some books around? I cleared the rest of the spiders out this morning.”
“Ugh,” she says again.
Finally irritated, I decide it’s time to ignore her and get on with my day. I resume my letter to Honeyrose.
Driz seems quite content at the coaching inn, which they have officially renamed in his honor. I have to admit I’ve never liked him so much as I do now there’s next to no possibility that we’ll ever have to get involved romantically. I know my parents always considered it in rather vague terms.
I pause and feel a little flush of embarrassment as I turn over my next words.
I have an odd request; it seems I’m not the only person suffering under a curse—a significant one, I mean—here in Little P. I’ve mentioned him before, of course, but I should explain a bit more. I’ve met a—
I pause again. I do want to ask her, officially, what I’m going to ask her. But, when you’re royal, there’s no privacy. The few weeks I’ve spent here in Beulah Bonecrusher’s Emporium of Books are the first—and genuinely only—time in my life where I’ve been left entirely to myself, with no expectation whatsoever that anyone will have any interest in anything I do. So I must tread carefully, and not get too used to it. I roll my pen between my fingers as I search for the right words.
I’ve met a person—a sailor, cursed to fear large bodies of water. I mentioned him before—the one who stole my books? We were discussing our various predicaments yesterday and he said something that made me wonder: Honey, is there something special, something unusual about Little P?
“Something brought you here,” he’d said. “Something brought me here.”
Or is it, as I more than half suspect, just coincidence: the recipients of two life-altering curses in the same small town in the middle of nowhere. What’s the old saying? Anyone can fall afoul of a curse.
I can hear Honey’s sensible voice; I know what she’ll say. “In a universe of infinite possibilities, anything can and will occur. Sheer coincidence.” It’s her usual response to my flights of fancy.
I consider scratching out my question about the pirate. But something compels me to leave it. Perhaps it’s just the little pleasure of admitting to someone else, in some small degree, that I’m curious. I’m invested.
In any event, I’d appreciate your thoughts. Do please tell Mother and Dad not to send all seven princes of the seven kingdoms to Little P to kiss me; I am quite used to Driz now, but we always got along pretty well. I couldn’t bear it if they were to send—
I pause. I can’t say anything untoward.
Anyone who doesn’t want to be here, I conclude. She’ll read between the lines. She always does. And I won’t have committed anything to paper that might imperil our diplomatic relations with anyone.
I end my letter with the usual pleasantries, drop in a note mentioning that a certain customer—I do not specify who, or the fact that he has never actually bought anything and is thus not technically a customer—has the uncanny ability to break both my anti-theft hexes and my closing-up spells, and does she have any suggestions for strengthening them? Then I sign it and set it aside. I’ll rewrite it in an hour or so, taking out anything I don’t want to enter the historical record, and get it ready to mail off, and stash the original with all the others. Sasha has been quite good about sending my post for me; I can expect to hear back within the week.
The problem is, I’d forgotten the foremost rule of summoning,the one so basic most magic texts don’t even mention it, assuming that it’s been drilled ruthlessly into the head of every magic practitioner since birth. Not everyone learns how to cast a spell…but most folks in the Widdenmar, I am given to understand, know some basic magic beyond lighting a fire. I don’t know anything, and haven’t really got anyone to ask, so I’m left to muddle through it on my own. This is the danger of taking up magic, even in a casual fashion, later in one’s life, and without any sort of proper tutorial. Or tutor. One doesn’t know what one doesn’t know.
The first, the most fundamental rule of summoning is this: If you don’t want a certain thing to happen, donotcommit the possibility to paper. The moment the universe gets an idea, it’ll run with it. Don’t give the universe ideas.
I look up when I hear the door chimes, and groan. A familiar long, lean figure is silhouetted in the doorway, looking impossibly decadent even while backlit.
“Backalready,” I say, more a statement than a question. “That can’t be good.”
“On the contrary, I think it’s going to begreat,” he says, drawing closer. The wild scents of sea and salt and sunshine precede him, and that funny, aching longing springs to life inside me.
“Did you bring my teacup? Or my books? My ribbon? Or the bookend you made off with yesterday?” I’d noticed the loss only after the book club had vacated the premises, and I’d operated under the assumption that none of them cared enough about theft to rig up a powerful anti-anti-theft charm to equal his. Plus, he’d left his florin in its place, only he’d bent it into a curious S shape.
“Though I can’t imagine what you did with it,” I say, eyeing his extremely tight breeches. “Or where you put it. Or why you’d want it.”
He catches my eye and waggles his eyebrows, and I blush again. “A man’s got to have a secret or two. It preserves his dignity.”
“Honestly, for someone who places such a premium on secrets, you’re awfully chatty about yours.”
“Perhaps I’m merely reassuring myself of what dignity I’ve managed to preserve. I am, after all, a pirate who’s afraid of water. It’s a fairly undignified situation, overall. How’s the hand?”
“Fine. Speaking of undignified situations, I assume you’re visiting because something deeply embarrassing is about to happen to me, and you’re here early to ensure your front-row seat?”
“Bull’s-eye,” he says, letting loose with a throaty chuckle.
