Curse of the Wolf King: A Beauty and the Beast Retelling (Entangled with Fae)

by Tessonja Odette

  My breath catches. This is the newest book in the Governess in Love series. And it’s here. In my hands. My mouth falls open as I hug the book to my chest and meet Mr. Cordell’s eyes.

  He gives me a knowing nod. “It’s quite good.”

  “You read it already? That’s so unfair. You should have hand-delivered it to me at once.”

  “Perhaps,” he says. “But then how else would I get you in here to brighten up my dreary shop? There are so few others in town with such keen tastes.”

  I must confess he’s right. I’ve hardly met another soul who appreciates the intricate art of the romance novel more than Mr. Cordell. He’s probably the most—if not only—pleasant surprise I’ve had since moving to Vernon. “You’re saving my sanity, you saintly old man.”

  “I’m not sure if I can be considered a saint after reading chapter eighteen. There are few things that can make me blush anymore, but…just you wait.”

  My entire being hums with my eagerness to get home and dive into my book straight away. But considering how quickly I finished the last book, I should probably take home more than one. “Is this the only new arrival?”

  “Oh, no. There’s plenty more. I knew you’d be most excited about that one, and it would be a crime not to reserve your copy at the counter. Go ahead and browse. You know where to find the good stuff.” He gives me a wink, and I make my way to the back of the store, The Governess and the Earl still clutched close to my chest.

  I reach the romance section, a wall of my favorite books spanning before me, most of which I’ve read once, if not several times. The aroma of paper envelops me like a warm blanket, one that feels like home. Safety. I’m so comforted in this moment, tears begin to prick my eyes. I run my fingers along the spines of the books, reading each title with care as if greeting a dear friend. I am, in truth. For here I am amongst my true peers. Men and women who’ve been swept beneath the tides of love, overcome by its grief and madness, in all its glorious stupidity. Of course, the characters in these books always end up with their lovers, safe and happy on the other side of scandal, betrayal, and heartache. Unlike myself.

  Perhaps that’s why I choose to disappear into books. It’s a place where I can feel seen for who I am and everything I’ve been through. Where I’m not judged for the things I’ve done or the messes I’ve made. And in these books, I can give myself the ending that was stolen from me. The ending I no longer believe exists in real life.

  Love.

  Just like my outward persona, it’s a lie.

  I continue my exploration of my silent companions, adding each intriguing new title to a pile on the floor, until I discover a spine that I know is immediately out of place. I don’t even need to read the title to know the book has been misshelved, for its bland color and unwieldy size say anything but romance. Such a crime could never be pinned on Mr. Cordell. No, this is the result of careless shoppers, the kind that make my blood boil. With a grumble, I remove the interloper and place it on top of my books. Seeing how tall my pile has grown tells me my shopping trip should probably be at an end, otherwise I’ll surpass my week’s allowance and end up owing Mr. Cordell at my next visit.

  I gather my merchandise, plus the wayward book, and head for the counter. Only now do I realize how busy the shop has become while I’ve been enchanted in my quiet corner. Couples stroll arm in arm, browsing the shelves as if they are looking at fragile artifacts and not dear friends. A pair of young women chat near a table of books, idly handling them without so much as looking at what they touch. I’ve never seen the shop with more than one or two patrons visiting at a time, and now it’s downright crowded. If this is what it’s going to be like now that Vernon’s social scene is in full swing, I must begin my visits to the bookshop much earlier in the morning.

  Making a beeline for Mr. Cordell, I quicken my pace. I’m nearly there when—

  “Infinite Suffering in the Garden of Happenstance.” A young man, perhaps a few years older than I, blocks my path, eyes not on my face but my chest. Or the books that cover it.

  I pull my merchandise closer, heart racing at his unexpected proximity. Not out of excitement, but a fleeting terror. I take a few breaths to steady my nerves and back up a step to put space between me and the man. “Excuse me?”

  He finally meets my eyes. I admit he’s handsome with his dark hair and eyes, his fashionable black jacket, sky blue waistcoat, and matching cravat. But his looks are marred by the condescending grin he wears, and when he speaks, his voice carries a nasal quality that grates on my ears. “The book,” he says. “The finest piece of Brettonish literature, and I must say, I am delighted to see one so beautiful as you holding it. I know by that alone that you are a woman of supreme breeding and unparalleled intelligence.”

  With an inward groan, I realize he’s mistaken the misplaced book as something I’m actually interested in. More irksome than that is his assumption that my level of intelligence can be measured by what I read. “Sir, I—”

  “Gavin Aston,” he says with a bow.

  I almost laugh. So, he’s Mrs. Aston’s son. What a surprise. “Mr. Aston—”

  “And you are?”

  I clench my jaw. “Gemma Bellefleur. And I—”

  He lifts his chin with what he probably thinks is a charming grin. “Call me Gavin.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Mr. Aston,” I say, punctuating each word for emphasis, “I am in a hurry to purchase my books.”

  “Ah, yes, how foolish of me.” Before I can react, he takes them from my arms and hefts the stack onto the counter.

  I rush after him. “I can carry my own books.”

  He pays me no heed. “Allow me to escort you home. You shouldn’t walk in the snow with such heavy merchandise.”

  I straighten my posture, bringing us nearly eye to eye. I’m tall for a woman, with broad shoulders and wide hips. It’s what my father calls a sturdy build—an insult, I’m sure, but I take pride in my figure. It helps add strength to my false persona. Compared to me, Mr. Aston is slim and lean. I highly doubt he’s much stronger than I am. “Like I said, I can carry my own books.”

  “Then perhaps you can allow me to carry conversation instead? I daresay I’ll find few others in town with intelligence to match mine.”

  I turn toward the counter and meet the furrowed brow of Mr. Cordell, whose eyes dart from me to my unwelcome companion. “Mr. Aston,” I say without looking at him, “you assume too much of my intelligence. I assure you, we are not as matched as you think. There is, in fact, a vast discrepancy between us.”

  “I appreciate your modesty, but you need not be quite so self-deprecating. It’s clear you are at least my half, if not my equal.”

  My hands tremble from the restraint it takes not to shake the sense into him with a punch to the nose. Instead, I attend to my stack of books. With an exaggerated motion, I push the misplaced book across the counter toward Mr. Cordell. “This was misshelved. I will not be buying it, but the others I will take. Oh, and today’s paper, please.”

  I refuse to look Mr. Aston’s way, although I can feel his gaze burning into me.

  Mr. Cordell nods and begins to draw up my bill, gaze flashing toward Mr. Aston time and again, who still, for whatever saintsforsaken reason, has yet to get the hint and leave. The old bookseller hands me my bill, as well as my books and newspaper, all bundled neatly together with string. “That will be twelve quartz chips, my dear.”

  I retrieve my purse and shell out twelve pieces of clear, crystalline quartz—the currency of the Winter Court—and collect my books.

  Mr. Aston holds out his arm, all smiles. “Shall we?”

  Gritting my teeth, I force myself to meet his gaze. “There’s a word where I come from, and perhaps I should have used it sooner, for I’m certain it is a word well-known in Faerwyvae as well. The word is no.”

  He throws his head back and laughs. “You truly are clever—”

  “Gemma!” a female voice says with a gasp. I don’t need to look to know wh
o it belongs to.

  Today of all days, I mutter to myself. With all the effort I can manage, I plaster a smile over my lips to conceal the snarl I’d rather show, and face my nemesis.

  Imogen.

  3

  Imogen greets me with a superficial hug, oblivious to the books I hold between us. “Dearest Gemma,” she says, her blonde curls bobbing beneath her pink hat. “I was so put out when I arrived at your house and you were not in. Did you forget our plans for tea?”

  “I did not forget them, for we never made them,” I say. “I recall you telling me you’d be over for morning tea, but I do not believe I affirmed I would be home to receive you.”

  She laughs, but her blue eyes go steely. “You’re so funny, Gemma. However, your father wouldn’t like to hear of you missing any of our dates.”

  “No,” I say with a sigh, “I doubt he would.” Curse my father for setting me up with Imogen Coleman, daughter of the vile woman he’s been courting since we arrived in Vernon. She calls herself my friend, but in truth, she’s more like my jailer. Here to keep me prim, proper, and well out of scandal’s vicious grasp.

  “It’s a good thing I knew just where to find you.” She then turns to the infernal man next to me. “I see you’ve met Mr. Aston already. We’re old friends.”

  Ugh, of course they know each other.

  “A pleasure to see you again, Miss Coleman,” he says with a nod. “I wasn’t aware your family would be vacationing here.”

  She swats him playfully on the arm. “You should know better by now. My family should be expected at all the liveliest social seasons.”

  “Yes. In fact, one would almost say you chase them.”

  I’m taken aback by the jibe, impressed to hear the first intelligent thing from his lips.

  Imogen’s face flashes with a scowl, but she quickly replaces her smile. “Mr. Aston, you must escort us home and carry Miss Bellefleur’s books.”

  “No,” I say before he can take a step toward me. “I’m desperate for some time alone with my dear friend.” Words I never expected I’d come to say about Imogen, that’s for sure.

  Mr. Aston frowns, hands extended toward the books I hold in a viselike grip.

  “Ah, Mr. Aston,” comes the bookseller’s voice. “I overheard your love for Infinite Suffering in the Garden of Happenstance. If you enjoy that, I have a new book all the intelligent young men are raving about.”

  My companion perks up at that. “Yes! Yes, I would like to see this book indeed. I will leave you two to talk amongst yourselves. I do know how ladies love to gossip.” With a wink, he rushes to join Mr. Cordell, giving me a glorious escape.

  Well, sort of. There’s still Imogen.

  We exit the bookshop, which sends my stomach plummeting. Gone is the comforting smell of paper, the dim indoor light, replaced instead with blinding white snow and crowds. At least my anxiety has all but retreated in the wake of my rage at Mr. Aston. It makes returning to the busy streets much easier to bear than it had been when I first set off. It’s always like this when I leave the house these days. Terrible at first, most often from the vantage inside my own head. Then nearly as bad when I first step outside. But I grow used to it as my memories of the past fail to materialize in the present.

  This is here. This is now.

  Imogen points across the street. “Oh my goodness. Is that…a fae?”

  I follow her line of sight to the elegant hotel-to-be still under partial construction. Outside it, a male figure with brown hair and horn-rimmed spectacles confers with a copper-haired woman next to him. While the woman appears human, aside from her odd choice of clothing—a brocade coat in vibrant chartreuse—the male has distinctly pointed ears. The sidewalk around them is nearly empty, with many crossing the road to give them space. As much as I hate to admit Mrs. Aston being right about anything, it is true that very few fae have come to Vernon so far, and when they do, they tend to be a bit of a spectacle. The two figures across the street, however, don’t seem to notice, as their attention is fixed on the hotel’s facade.

  “I can’t believe they’re still working on the Verity Hotel,” Imogen says with a pout. “It’s the only one with space for a proper ballroom. How can we have a true social season without a place to dance?”

  I internally roll my eyes. “I’m sure we’ll manage.”

  “I wish they’d hurry. You’d think hiring a fae interior designer would make the process faster, not slow it to a snail’s pace.” Imogen continues to glare at the hotel, as if that alone could speed the construction, until a petite young woman approaches.

  She wears an enormous blue bonnet—although she looks old enough to wear much more mature fashions—and a gray wool coat with fraying hems. “I’ve picked up your ribbons,” she says to Imogen.

  Imogen doesn’t so much as look at her. “Take Miss Bellefleur’s books, Ember,” she says, pointing at me before she starts off down the sidewalk.

  The girl named Ember takes my burden with a warm smile, adding to arms already laden with bags and boxes.

  “Thank you,” I say to her, then join Imogen. “Is she a new maid? I haven’t seen you travel with her before.”

  Imogen leans in close and mutters, “She’s my stepsister. Might as well make her useful.”

  I nearly trip over my boots as I whirl back to the girl, heat rising to my cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were a maid. Here, let me take them back.”

  “Really, it’s fine,” Ember says.

  “Yes, it’s fine,” Imogen echoes, but with more ice in her tone. She pulls me to face forward, her smile never faltering as she says, “It’s improper to carry your own books, Gemma dear. You’ll never snag a husband like that.”

  Her words return my irritation, but they also remind me to replace my mask. My unflustered persona. With more grace than I truly feel, I ask, “And what about your sister? If such a thing is improper for me, is it not improper for her to carry my books?”

  She lets out a high-pitched laugh. “Ember isn’t on the market for a husband. We are. As someone older than you, you must heed my counsel.”

  I bite back my retort. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to tell Imogen Coleman to take her counsel and piss right off. But, of course, my father would kill me. My so-called friendship with the girl is probably the only thing keeping him from breathing down my neck every minute of the day to find me a husband.

  So instead, I look down my nose at her. “How do you know I even want to marry?”

  She meets my gaze, aghast. “Well, we’ve already established you have no merits to recommend you to the fae royals, and becoming one of their prized artisans is the only viable option for an unmarried woman without her own wealth. You don’t sing, you don’t play the pianoforte, and you have no artistic talent. Besides, the Winter Court’s seelie king rarely accepts new artisans, and the unseelie king doesn’t even hold auditions. In fact, even if the unseelie king decided to finally grace us lowly townspeople with his presence, I’d hesitate to suggest you get your hopes up with him. Hardly anyone knows a thing about him, aside from his disdain for humans. I don’t even know his…”

  She trails off, her tirade coming to an uncharacteristic pause. I furrow my brow, watching as her eyes glaze over, face blank as if she’s suddenly forgotten what she was saying. Maybe I’ll get lucky and she’ll stop speaking altogether.

  Then, just as suddenly as the strange expression came, it disappears with a shake of her head. “No, your destiny lies not with the fae and their elite cities and palaces.” The wistfulness in her tone isn’t lost on me, and I wonder if she’s speaking equally to herself. I’ve heard her lament time and time again that there haven’t been nearly enough fae princes present at any of the other courts’ recent social seasons. Apparently, a royal fae husband equates to the ultimate marital success for human girls in Faerwyvae.

  Imogen sighs. “Like me, your place is here, amongst the humans. Which means you must have a husband.”

  I clench my jaw, wanting to sc
ream. How are the people here so…so stagnant? So unprogressive? I never considered my previous homes to be amidst advanced society, but everyone I’ve met in Vernon suggests this place is several years—if not decades—behind the times.

  Then again, personal experience has proven just how prevalent rigid social structures can be…and the cruelty of those who enforce them. The rumors. The sneers. The leering taunts—

  “Mr. Aston is a great option,” Imogen says, startling me from my thoughts. “I will hate you forever if you snag him. Although, I am sure I have lost all chance with him regardless.”

  As much as I despise engaging in such trivial conversation, her words have piqued my curiosity. “Why is that?”

  “We courted for no more than a week last year, and I’m certain neither of us could stand it. He wanted nothing more than to talk and debate, and I could hardly keep up with the dreary subjects he wanted to chat about. You could tempt him, though. It’s clear he’s already smitten with you. Besides, you both like…books.” She says the last word with a flourish of her hand, her nose wrinkled with distaste.

  I lift my chin. “A mutual love for books doesn’t mean I can tolerate tedious conversation with an insufferable fool who thinks so highly of his intellect.”

  I catch a stifled laugh and find Ember feigning a cough behind us. Imogen, however, has stopped in her tracks, eyes wide as her cheeks burn pink. “You should not speak of Mr. Aston like that,” she mutters furiously. Gathering her composure, she links her arm through mine, and we begin to walk again. “He could be just what you need, you know.”

  I frown. “Just what I need? For what?”

  She looks up at me, lips twisted into a knowing smirk. “To secure a husband before everyone here finds out.”

  This time, I’m the one pulling to an abrupt halt. “Finds out? About what?”

  “Your father told my mother all about it, and she told me.”

  A hollow ringing fills my ears, and time seems to slow down and speed up all at once.