—Your only friend
I oblige and read his next one.
This is why we should finally exchange names. I have no idea who you are or how to find you, and I swear, if I find out that it’s because you ran off with that prince who came here, I’ll be highly disappointed.
That doesn’t seem like the type of woman you are at all…
—Your only friend
Four months without a response?
Now, granted, I am the most brilliant man in this town and by far the best, but I must admit I’m getting rather lonely not writing with you, the second best.
Where have you gone?
—Your only friend
I follow his notes and comments, stopping when I reach his last one.
Well, I’m guessing your silence means you did marry that prince after all. Or perhaps you’ve married someone else, and your husband isn’t allowing you to come and select your own books. You could’ve at least told me goodbye or given me a reason. Maybe even finally let me see you so we could properly bid farewell.
Alas, I’ll check A Midsummer’s Night Dream for another fortnight, and then I won’t check for you anymore.
—Your only friend, or so I thought…
* * *
“Belle?” Mr. Lorimer calls. “Belle, do you think your sister will want one or two romances this time?”
“Two!” I find A Midsummer’s Night Dream and pull a quill from my satchel.
I’m so sorry for my delay.
I was being punished by my father again because I turned down that awful prince, but I’m still here.
You won’t like this one, and I’m not surprised you enjoyed Macbeth.
That’s why we can’t meet, though.
You clearly like macabre things, and that’s never a good sign in a friend.
—Your only friend, too
I smile and shut the book.
I’ve been writing to him for over two years now, and I’ve somehow convinced myself that I mean as much to him as he means to me. Although I desire to see him face to face—to finally get a glimpse of someone who understands me all too well—I know it’s best if we keep each other at a distance.
From the way he writes, he’s clearly educated, and he’s mentioned owning large swaths of land, which means he’ll want to marry a woman of status or beauty.
Someone like Izzie.
“Come grab the books, Belle!”
I return the book to the shelf and walk to the counter, but Mr. Lorimer is nowhere to be found. Instead, it’s his shared maid, Cinderella.
Easily one of the prettiest women in town, her cinnamon-kissed skin glows under the store’s dim lighting, and her dark curly hair falls to her shoulders in waves.
“Well, hello there, fellow peasant.” She smiles. “Are you still running errands for your wicked sister?”
“Depends. Are you still being abused by yours?”
“By both of them, in fact.”
We burst into laughter, and she hands me the wrapped books.
“I think you’d look a lot better without that ridiculous scarf wrapped around your face,” she jokes. “Then again, I’m far less intimidated by your looks now.”
“I’m sure you are.” I roll my eyes. “If you were ever allowed to leave this place, every man in town would fall in love with you at first sight.”
“Stop talking about yourself.” She climbs over the counter and pulls me toward a mirror. She gently tugs at the scarf, but I keep it close.
“Did your father hit you again?”
I nod. “He left a mark this time.”
“Can you let me see it so I can help?” She says it as more of a statement than a question, and before I know it, she’s pulling it away.
I let out a sigh as we both turn to face my reflection.
Three purple bruises are stamped on my left cheek and they’re all swollen.
I await her gasp, for her to hastily return the cloth, but she doesn’t say a word.
Instead, she pulls open a drawer that holds jars of powder and presses it against my skin.
“It honestly doesn’t even matter,” she says. “You’re still the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, and by the time I get done with you, you’ll barely notice it.”
“No need to waste any of this on me,” I say. “I don’t have any powder of my own at home.”
“Then you can take all of my sisters’ jars.” She shrugs. “All the powder in the world will never make their faces pretty.”
I laugh, and she smiles at me through the mirror.
“Thank you,” I say. “Have you caught a glimpse of the man who writes me yet?”
“Not even once.” She shakes her head. “Whoever he is, he gets in and out of here without leaving a trace.”
“The notes aren’t from you, right? You promise you’re not playing a wicked game with me?”
“Please.” She pats my face with more powder. “I hate your sister, but I’m with her when it comes to reading. Anything other than a romance isn’t worth my time…”