Somewhere out there, gossip birds were no doubt still squawking about her mother, her father, and the woman he had loved before. About Iris herself and her unsuitable magic. Aboutall the ways in which she did not measure up to proper fae standards.
With a sigh, Iris reached for the satchel she’d brought from the tea house. Among the books and papers nestled inside was the leather-bound notebook Lady Rivenna had given her. She hadn’t had a chance to use it since finding it nestled beneath the cushions of her little alcove.
She retrieved a self-inking quill from her desk drawer before heading to the window seat and settling onto it with the notebook on her lap. She ran her fingers over the silver filigree patterns on its deep purple cover, admiring their intricate beauty. Then she took a deep breath and opened it to the first blank page. She set the tip of the quill against the blank page and wrote:
I am alone.
Then she sat there, the quill gripped loosely in her hand, staring through the page. This was almost certainly not what Lady Rivenna had intended the notebook for, but?—
Iris blinked, her breath catching. Beneath her own words, in an elegant script, new words had taken form on the page:
Technically, you are not.
Iris shrieked and leaped to her feet, dropping the notebook as if it had burned her. Then she stood frozen, one hand to her mouth and her heart thudding in her chest as more letters appeared in the same elegant script. She dared to lean closer.
That hurt.
She pulled back. “What in all the stars?” she murmured. With a deep breath and slightly trembling fingers, she bent and retrieved the notebook. She blinked a few times, but the words were still there. She sat and reached for the quill.
Who is this?
The High Lady herself.
Iris’s mouth fell open, a quiet gasp escaping.
A notebook, silly girl. You are conversing with a notebook. Now do close your mouth.
Iris closed her mouth with a snap. Then she returned her quill to the page.
I’ve never heard of such a thing.
I dare say there are a great many things in the world you are unaware of.
Iris frowned and wrote,There is no need to be rude.
Pointing out your limited knowledge is not rudeness but simple observation. Though I suppose one might consider abandoning me in a window seat for days on end rather rude as well.
Iris stared at the page, a strange mixture of emotions swirling within her. Part of her wanted to slam the notebook shut and hide it beneath her pillow. Another part—the curious, scholarly part—was fascinated by this unexpected discovery.
Lady Rivenna enchanted you?she wrote finally.
A fine deduction. What tipped you off? Perhaps the fact that she was the one who gifted me to you?
Iris felt her lips twitch despite herself.You do seem rather tetchy for a notebook.
And you are rather bold for someone conversing with an enchanted object for the first time. Most would be cowering in fear or running for assistance. Instead, you are critiquing my tone.
I’ve had a difficult day,Iris wrote.Criticism from stationery hardly seems worth the additional distress.
A pause, then:I see.
The notebook’s response somehow managed to convey a sense of judgment despite consisting of only two words. Iris sighed and wrote:My parents are leaving tomorrow. Returning home without me.
Ah. That would explain the melodramatic opening statement.
It wasn’t melodramatic. It was true. I will be alone here with grandparents who can barely stand to look at me.
Have you considered that perhaps your grandparents need time to adjust, as do you? One wonders if you’ve truly given them the opportunity to know you before dismissing their capacity for affection.
