“That’s beside the point,” I say, hoping to turn the conversation away from this rather uncomfortable subject and back toward the issue at hand. “I can’t ask Driz to go buy books for my bookstore simply because he likes me. It wouldn’t be—”
“Don’t you dare saynice.”
“I wasn’t going to. It wouldn’t beright. It would be taking advantage of him.” Plus, I like having him around when he can tear himself away from the inn, where he appears to have befriended half the town.
“Fine. Forget I said anything.”
I can see she’s miffed that I haven’t taken up her idea in all enthusiasm.
“What do you think the, uh…” I pause and make myself say it. “What do you think Bash does all day?” Speaking his name gives me the same sensation I have when lighting the fire: a strange kind of shivering sensation across my skin, like the barest hint of breeze on a warm day. I’ve avoided calling him anything other than “the pirate” out of fear that someone might hear me and know what I’m actually saying. Whatever that might be.
“The Barn Pirate?” she says, sounding startled. “You can’t possibly be thinking of makinghimgo buy books about chickens for you. He’s so lazy.”
“I think he’s bored, not lazy,” I say. “He did, apparently, used to run a ship.”
“I suppose,” she says. “He appeared about a week before you and moved into the barn and, I don’t know. Lounges around. Heused to spend all his time in the town square, till you showed up. He completely scandalized my granny by flirting with her, you know.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” I say, encouraged—she doesn’t seem to be reading anything untoward into my interest. “But all day? Every day? What does he do when he’s not here? He’s not in the bookstore all the time.”
She shrugs. “I know he spends time at the inn, bothering the princes. Drizloveshim. They keep him fed, I think. Half the girls at school moon about him going for long walks in the hills,” she adds, a little severely. “So I suppose he does that.” She rolls her eyes. “Apparently it’sterribly romantic.”
I nod, moving books around rather sightlessly. I can certainly understand the impulse to moon about a handsome man wandering the hillsides—tragic romances are rife with them—especially one that looks like, well,him.
“Makes sense,” I say, my voice reassuringly even.
“I think it’s the breeches, but no one asked me,” Sasha continues. “There are much better things to do than get all giggly about someguy.”
“That reminds me,” I say. “What was the idea you had?” I say. “Earlier? About bags?”
“Oh!” Sasha brightens immediately. “You need bags with the shop’s name on them, bags that people can carry around even after they’ve taken your books out and put them away. It’d be like, like…like free advertising. It’d definitely bring in more customers. And since you’re kind of like a tourist spot…you could make them free with purchase, or if people don’t want to buy books but want to show that they’ve been here, they could buy them individually! Like a souvenir!”
I privately question exactly how much of a tourist draw I am,given how few people we have in the store when there aren’t princes with trumpeters standing outside, but it’s a good idea.
“Just…the name of the shop?” I ask.
“Yeah, but like…okay, so you could copy the way it’s painted on the sign outside.” Sasha’s eyes are gleaming with excitement.
I only caught a glimpse of the sign twice before being consigned to life inside the store, but if I recall correctly, it’s pretty shabby.
“It’s not a very pretty sign, is it, though?” I can’t imagine it’s the sort of thing people would want reproduced on bags.
“No, but…” Sasha suddenly looks uncharacteristically uncertain. “What if you had it redone? Totally repainted, in a really cool new way, so it really stands out?”
“I suppose,” I say. The Inn of the Three—now Four—Princes has had its sign repainted four times in the last few months. So, by the transitive property, I can safely assume there’s a sign maker somewhere nearby, if not actually in town, who takes commissions on short notice.
“I might know someone,” Sasha continues, again looking uncertain. I sharpen my gaze; she suddenly looks very young. It’s easy to forget that she’s only fifteen.
“Oh?” I say, careful to keep my voice neutral.
“Someone at school,” Sasha says, gaining confidence. “She’s so talented; definitely the best artist there. I can, um, bring her in someday after school? You could meet her? Look at some of her stuff? She’s really great.” Sasha sounds so uncharacteristically anxious—
Ah.
“That’d be marvelous,” I say, smiling. “Whenever she has the time…I’m always here.”
Sasha smiles, looking relieved. “I’ll ask tomorrow.”
Aw, young love. Sasha’s positively glowing. Whoever the mysterious artist is, Sasha’s clearly going to enjoy having an excuse to talk to her.
