I stand there until gooseflesh breaks out on my skin and the rain becomes too chilly to bear, and finally head back inside, leaving my clothes outside. I’ll collect them later. My fire is warm and the cat—I must name the cat, I think, affectionately—appears to be sitting in front of it. I lean down and give her a tentative pat, and she chirps at me sleepily and wraps one of her soft tentacles around my wrist.
I wind myself up in a blanket and drape myself on the most comfortable chair in front of the fire, and close my eyes. I feel the thump of the cat on my lap and for the first time in the longest time I can remember, I feel totally at peace. Whether I break the curse and leave the bookstore, having discovered—and unlocked—my heart’s desire, or even if I’m stuck here forever…well, somehow, in this moment, none of it matters. This, right now, is enough.
I don’t know how long I linger before the fire, feeling its warm glow on my skin and the cat purring on my lap, listening to the crackle of the logs and the patter of the rain, when I’m startled out of my reverie by a knock. Honey’s enchantments included some sort of spell that makes knocking at the bookstore’s front door echo in here, so I always know if someone’s trying to get hold of me.
“Who onearth,” I tell the cat, although I suspect it could be only one of a limited number of people: Sasha, some prince (hopefully not a new one; I’m not in the mood to deal with a new prince tonight), or the pirate.
I move the cat off my lap—quite an activity, since she stillappearsto be sitting on the hearth before the fire—wrap my blanket around myself, and head out into the bookstore, the bluecaps drifting after me. Clearly they’re as curious about my visitor as I am.
I peek through the glass and smile, and pull the door open.
“Barn Pirate!” I say, genuinely pleased to see him. “You knocked! You usually just break in!”
“Yes, well, I brought you dinner,” he says, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. He hefts a basket toward me.
“Is it the curse? Is the rain bothering you? Do you need company?”
He shakes his head. “I thought you might want something besides turnips. It looked like a busy day.” He is completely soaking wet and yet looks as though he doesn’t mind at all. This despite being cursed to be afraid of water. It’s astonishing.
“I suppose you’d better come in, then,” I say. I decide it’s the mead that has me feeling suddenly and unaccountably buoyant. “Don’t steal anything, for mercy’s sake. Unless it’s another cobweb.” I’ve sent all the spiders packing and dusted ferociously, so I doubt there are many cobwebs left for him to steal anyway. I open the door and step aside. He casts me an inquiring look as he enters.
“Are you…naked?”
“No,” I say. “I’m wearing a blanket. Stay here.”
I return to my room, leaving him at the desk. My clothes are still in a sopping puddle outside, so I pull on another of Mrs. Gooch’s old dresses, something soft and faded. My skin’s dried but my hair’s still wet, so I leave it down. Quite a daring move for a princess, but needs must. And it’s not nearly as daring as roaming around without any underthings on, which I’m also doing. My mother would be appalled. At the first little quaver of uncertainty in my breast, I snort and toss my hair. I shall banish my doubts and do what I like tonight. Perhaps with more mead.
I return to the bookstore proper and hand him a towel, which he takes and stares at.
“You’re all wet,” I say.
“Ah, yes,” he says, making no move to dry himself.
“You’d better come all the way in and dry off,” I say, and head back toward my apartment. He follows; I can hear him behind me, and, of course, the bookstore suddenly smells like the sea on a stormy day.
“So, dinner!” I chirp. I amnotpaying attention to the way his wet shirt clings to his chest.
“Why are some of your clothes in a pile outside?”
I glance out the still-open door leading to my tiny garden. To be sure, my clothes are just visible.
“That’s where I put them,” I answer.
He nods. “Was that before or after the mead?”
“What mead?” I say, and then hiccup.
He raises an eyebrow at the half-empty bottle of mead next to my one nice teacup, sitting on the counter beneath the shelf that holds my dishes.
“Oh,thatmead. After.”
“Mead’s a bit sweet for me,” he says.
“If you’re angling for something to drink,” I say, trying to sound like I’ve taken the high road and have never made a single questionable decision in my life—as though my mother would ever permit such a thing as a questionable decision—“your options are limited.”
“I’m not angling for something to drink,” he says.
“You brought dinner?” I remind him, hopefully. “I’m ravenous.” Which, I realize, is true.
