“You mean I should be saying things like ‘ooh err’ and ‘arrrg, matey,’ I suppose,” Bash says agreeably, affecting a broad west-country accent. Why, I wonder, is the west country so associated with piracy? He’s from the south coast anyway.
“You dolooklike a pirate,” Sasha says, glancing at me. Apparently, I’m the only person alive who has no idea what a pirate looks like. “But he’s right; you don’t talk like a pirate.”
Bash shrugs. “What can I say? Those years in the merchant marines must have been very improving.”
Yenny tips his head to one side, scrutinizing Bash, who lounges, as insouciant as ever, under his gaze.
“Rather well-dressed for a pirate,” he finally pronounces.
“I try,” Bash agrees.
“Excuse me,” someone behind me says, and we all whirl around in surprise. Someone is at the till. With three books. And the expectant expression of a potential customer.
“Hiii,” Sasha says, loudly. “Amazing choices.Tardigard’s Revengeis one of my favorites.”
Chapter 28
We ultimately sell hundreds of books; the fact that Yenny went outside and directed his trumpeters to play fanfares if more than a quarter of an hour passed without a sale certainly made a difference. If only to get them to be quiet. Sasha’s windows inspire sales; our little notes pinned to various shelves and making recommendations move stock; we sell nearly every copy of every book I’ve set on the “trust me, just try” shelf. All in all, it’s a good day at the shop. A noisy day, but a good one.
Once Yenny’s departed in search of dinner, taking his trumpeters with him, things begin to quiet down. The pirate vanished at some point when I wasn’t paying attention; I tell myself to go looking for whatever he stole and left behind once the store’s closed, and ignore my disappointment that he left without saying goodbye. I can’t quite talk myself out of thinking that, one day, he’ll vanish as he always does, and never return again. I find that,in the secret corners of my heart, I hope that he’ll stick around till my curse is broken—even if he breaks his own beforehand. Not that I’d ever admit that to anyone.
At six, Sasha and I flip the little stone to “closed” and take stock of the aftermath of our busiest day of sales yet. The third floor, Sasha’s domain, has been eviscerated; whole shelves are empty. She sighs and drops onto a cushion, and I have to keep myself from doing the same. I’m completely worn out.
The fact is, I think to myself as I tidy a stack, none of the princes so far have been quite as bad as I’d feared. Even Bel, who thinks so little of me, has made himself a bit of a hit with Sasha’s friends, drooping about, quoting improving aphorisms, and suggesting morose poetry for them to read. How odd to think it’s taken an experience like being cursed and more or less forced to kiss princes to discover that those princes aren’t really quite as tiresome as I’d always thought. Driz and I had always been friendly, but these days…well, now we feel like we’ve become true friends. The others: I might be on the same road with them, though rather more slowly in some cases.
How overwhelming.
“We’ll have to find more books about chickens,” Sasha says, startling me out of my thoughts. She’s staring up at the poultry shelf. “They’re all gone. Who knew?”
“I have no idea how we go about that,” I say. “I’m pretty certain Mrs. Gooch bought lots of books from estates. And it’s not as though I could go do it myself. And,” I add, a little ferociously, as I see her open her mouth, “you have school.”
“We could ask one of the princes to help. They haven’t got anything better to do, and at least one of them would hang the stars in the sky for you if you asked.”
“Good dragon goddess, Sasha; who on earth do you mean by that?”
“Driz, obviously,” Sasha says, rolling her eyes. “He’s madly in love with you.”
I groan. “We’re just friends.”
“Sure.”
“If he’s so in love with me, I couldn’t possibly take advantage of that by asking him to do things for me,” I point out. “It’d be so terrifically unkind, not to mention horribly unethical.” I still feel a little guilty about having Yenny help me sell books today, no matter how enthusiastically he threw himself into it.
Sasha turns and regards me for a long moment. “You know what your problem is, Tandy?” she says, finally.
“Besides being cursed to stay inside a bookstore for, maybe, ever?”
“Obviously. No, your problem is that you’re—”
“—too nice,” I conclude for her, with a sigh. Honey’s favorite comment.
“Too nice,” she agrees. “Just, like, do something for yourself for once.”
“I’m doing plenty for myself,” I point out, gesturing at the bookstore. “I could just sit in my little apartment and drink turnip tea and be melancholy, but I’m not.”
Sasha throws her arms up in performative despair. “You wouldn’t be playing at running a bookstore if you weren’t beingforcedto do it, would you? You’d be off instead doing, what? Cutting another ribbon?”
Actually, I’ve been here long enough that my road duties would be over by now; I’d be heading home for a few royal balls before packing up to move to the Winter Palace, for more balls.So I’d be getting new gowns fitted, waist-training for my winter regalia, keeping up with correspondence with various heads of state, and arranging my dance cards from now until February. How horrible to contemplate.
