“Smaller domesticated animals?” he says, pointing to Mossette.
“Of course.”
“Libraries and baked goods are obviously on your list.”
“Obviously.”
“Grumpy vampires who aren’t into the many gatherings you like to arrange?”
I laugh then and pull him to his feet. He’s still holding his quill as I spin him around. “Yes! Am I supporting you properly?”
“Indubitably.”
“Is that how you use that word?” I spin him around once more, delighted that he’s allowing this silliness.
“I think so?”
Chuckling, I release him even though I truly want to continue clumsily holding his hands and pretending we could be a couple. I refuse to think about the future. I’m just going to savor this moment. That’s a skill I have—savoring.
“Tonight,” he says, taking up his writing spot once more, “if you feel you need me there because people aren’t behaving properly, send me a note. I will show up for you. I swear it.”
“Even if the room is packed and there is terrible music being played too loudly?”
“Even then,” he says, his voice a sigh.
I grin and pat his knee before returning to my desk. Mossette hops into my lap and I stroke her soft mossy green and leafy orange fur. Archer and I get back to work on the short story, nibbling sandwiches the inn magically produces and taking turns pacing to think.
It’s one of the best daysI’ve ever had in my entire life.
That night,the common room is indeed packed. Tourists with curious eyes and foreign accents ask about room rates at the front desk. Dew is handling it nicely, though she does look a touch worn out. Her hair is frizzing out in the heat of the crowd and the line at the desk is growing longer instead of shorter. The lad Cyrus let me hire for the event appears at the front door just in time to give her a hand. Locals gather close to the amateur musicians who are all seated in the back corner to await their performance. I gave them each an assigned time so they would know when to be ready.
A middle-aged pixie flutters her blue wings and strums a lute slowly, singing a particularly baudy and oddly tragic song that’s popular at Grumlin’s tavern, the Goat and Dragon.
“And they turned and danced all through the night,
Cloven and crested meeting with delight,
The ship swayed with the weight of devotion,
And the wind threatened to feed the ocean,
Over they went and into the sea,
Still dancing and loving and like flower and bee…”
“Why does everyonelove this terrible song so much?” Lysandra is at my side, drinking Snowlight mead I had brought in.
I shrug and clap as the musician launches into the wordless bridge. “I think it’s down to the driving beat. Easy to sing along. Easy to dance to.”
At last, it’s over, and I clap along with the rest of the room. I take Lysandra’s hand and she helps me to stand on the nearest table.
“Hello, everyone!” I call out above the noise.
The crowd turns toward me, and I lift the draft of Archer’s and my story. My hands are shaking. I hate to attribute it to the folks who said things about me at the last reading, but that’s exactly the reason. Well, that and Archer didn’t surprise me and show up. After the lovely day we had, I thought he might change his quiet ways if only for a night.
After clearing my throat and taking a steadying breath, I read the exciting scene that Archer and I completed, the part about smelling the fire and the door slamming overhead. When I finish, the gathering room fills with applause and murmuring. I hear several people guessing what’s going to happen next and how they would escape the wine cellar.
“Where’s your co-writer?” someone in the crowd asks loudly. I look for the source, but can’tspot him. “Master Darkheart must not think much of this project if he never shows for a reading. I’m not into romance, so I don’t even see why you’re doing a co-writing project. I prefer his thrillers without all the silly content your type tends to throw in.”
