But Sasha is entirely focused on her window display idea, and we set the thought of clearing out the ground floor aside as she clears a shelf on a case near her window (which results in yet another perilous pile on the floor), and hand-letter a sign to hang beside them. Her window, overall—at least from the inside—is truly a work of genius: She brings deep blue velvet cloth from home and spreads it over a structure she creates out of books, then places a single, beautiful copy of each of Gaspard’s seven novels in the window, surrounded by dried flowers and posies of herbs liberated from my garden. The whole thing is arranged so that, from the outside, the seven novels are displayed to advantage, each at a slightly different level. She places dried roses, lavender, and daisies in delicate vases—also brought from home—hangs them in bunches from the top of the window, and scatters petals among the books. The overall effect, even from behind (my only vantage point), is very compelling, I’m forced to admit.
My own window display, meant to highlight how many quality books I have in stock, looks pretty shabby in comparison, even against the backdrop of emerald velvet I manufactured from one of my traveling gowns. Feeling a little shameful about how poor my window is in comparison, I scatter some dried flowers about the books. The cat, clearly feeling the need to prove some arcane feline point, immediately takes up residence in my window and spends much of each day sunning herself atop a copy ofThro’ the Riven Rushes.
But Sasha’s idea works; within an hour of unveiling her window, we have two customers, townsfolk who’ve never come inside before, asking whetherHow Great Was Our Loveis really worth all the talk, and both walk off with copies they’ve bought from us.
After the second customer leaves, Sasha turns to me, eyes shining.
“I think this is going to work,” she breathes. “And Mom’ssuperexcited about getting the coven to readFelicity Among the Petals.” She pauses. “She’s also excited about the mead Hestia’s making inFelicity’s honor. It’s going to be flavored with flowering wall-creeper.” She pauses, and makes a face. “Gross.”
Chapter 26
We see a real upswing in visitors (one or two a day, rather than a week) once I leave the window displays in Sasha’s capable claws. Sasha also discovers that Bel has written and published a compendium of essays,Meditations on Crosby’s Perorations, about his favorite epic poem and one of the more draining of his country’s contributions to literature, and suggests we order in some copies and then have him come in after hours and give a talk about it. “He can sign copies,” Sasha adds. “I’m sure everyone would be thrilled to have a signature from a real prince.”
“Have you readCrosby?” I ask. “It’s not an exciting book.” As part of my education in statecraft, I had to memorize a section of the thing, so I’m certainly in a position to have an opinion. I couldn’t finish the first volume of Crosby. I couldn’t make it through so much as the first five pages of Bel’sMeditationson Crosby.
“Hen’s teeth,” she says, unconcerned. “No one will come to hear the poem or his opinions about it anyway. They’ll all just want to chat with him. Look how much business the inn has drummed up since all those princes started staying there.”
“Don’t folks get enough chat at the inn?” The Inn of the Three Princes, as it has now been renamed, is still host to all three of my suitors. Patience and Georgelle, the couple who run the place, have come in several times to tell me how pleased they are that I managed to get myself cursed in Little Pepperidge, and how having three princes hanging around has increased the town’s tourist footfall tenfold.
I decline to point out that, if they’re very lucky and I’m terribly unlucky, they might get four more princes in before I’m uncursed.
The thought fills me with dread, and that night I write Honey a long letter, asking her how her search is going. It’s all I can do to keep hope alive that she’ll be able to send a proper sorcerer along before my folks can talk any more princes into visiting.
My hopes are dashed the next morning.
I’m bent over my correspondence, ordering in more copies of Gaspard’s novels and looking into how much it would cost to buy ten—ten!—copies of Bel’s commentary onCrosby. Too much, is the answer I’ve decided upon. Royal monographs are printed to exacting standards and cost a fortune, and these would have to be shipped in from Five-Fold. I can’t imagine anyone in Little Pepperidge would want to payseventeen guildersfor a copy of theMeditations, signed or not.
“Darling!” comes a voice, as the door to the shop crashes open. “I’ve come to break the curse!”
My hand stills over the paper. I know that voice.
Yenal. Crown prince of Corscan.
I glance around desperately. I’m alone.
It’s only midmorning. Sasha’s at school and clearly the pirate hasn’t noticed that another prince has rolled into town, since he’s nowhere to be seen. Thank heavens for that, at least. It’s getting harder and harder to be around him, especially if I know I’m about to be unsuccessfully kissed. Again. He smells too nice; he unbalances me too easily. It’s all simply too much.
“Hi, Yenal,” I say, getting to my feet.
“You’re runninga bookshop,” he says, approaching. “What adelight!”
“Well,” I say. “To a degree.” Best to be measured in one’s responses to Yenal. He can be very enthusiastic.
“I run a small sheep farm on the grounds of my summer palace,” Yenal says, beaming at me. “It’s such a pleasure! Reminds one of the importance of humility in the face of one’s subjects!”
Yes, I’m well aware of Yenal’s sheep farm. He keeps a flock of thirteen rare-breed Crombishire Blues in a specially constructed back garden adjacent to his favorite palace, and shears them himself. He does not bathe them himself, though he insists on this occurrence regularly. He does, I hear, feed them. By hand.
While wearing a silk version of his country’s traditional peasant costume.
Today, however, he’s dressed in full regalia, including a scarlet cape of very fine velvet. I wonder, briefly, whether he could be parted from it; Sasha would surely make a lovely window display out of it.
“I shall not break the curse for you yet, my darling,” Yenal continues. I groan inwardly. “I’ve been on the road since receiving your parents’ desperate missive, and must partake of refreshment,and wash the dust from my boots, before we sanctify our tender union.”
His boots, it goes without saying, are entirely dust-free.
“Oh no, don’t,” I say, moving around the desk toward him. “That is, I mean, why wait? Let’s…”Get it over with. “Let’s keep this moment to ourselves.”
But Yenal has never kept anything to himself.
