The Serpent King(29)
“You’re destined for great things, Lydia. That comes at a price. Everybody wants to be close to greatness and get a piece for themselves. The day may come when it takes some discernment to tell when someone loves you for you and when someone wants to stand near your fire. You have two friends right now who may not be glamorous, but they love you for you.”
“You’re right,” she murmured.
Her dad sat up in mock astonishment, fumbling for his phone. “Hold on, hold on! Can you repeat that so I can get it on film?”
“You’re such a dork, I can’t even deal. I have to go work on my blog.” She got up.
“Don’t stay up too late.”
“I love you, Daddy.” She kissed him on the cheek.
“Oh, by the way, a few things came for you today. On the kitchen counter.”
Lydia went into the kitchen. A package from Owl, an up-and-coming online budget fashion retailer. A sundress and some wedges. Not bad. They’d make the blog. A small package from Miu Miu. A back-to-school gift—a necklace. Definitely blog-worthy.
And an envelope. She opened it. A letter, on the most expensive-feeling stationery she’d ever held. It smelled as though scent scientists had engineered it to give off the whiff of walking past a high-end rare book dealer’s shop in Paris or London. Written in powerful, sweeping, feminine handwriting:
Love the blog. Of course I’ll give you a letter of recommendation. Write a letter for my signature and have Dahlia give it to my assistant. See that your grammar and spelling are impeccable. Above all, be generous with yourself; make signing this worth my while.
Cheers,
Vivian Winter
Excitement dissipated some of the melancholy of the conversation about Dill and Travis.
Just got letter from your mom, said she’d write rec letter for me!!! THANK YOU, Lydia texted Dahlia.
Her phone buzzed. I told you she would, Dahlia texted back. Repay me by featuring me on Dollywould.
You got it. We’ll do profile and interview. Seriously thanks.
It’s nothing. Chloe is in, btw. Three fab fashionistas in NYC. We better find a place with loads of closet space.
Now I need to get into NYU, Lydia texted.
You’ll have no trouble thanks to mum and your brilliance.
Lydia began composing her blog post while she looked at the pictures of the things she and her two friends wanted as their messages to the world after they’d been dead for thousands of years and tried to think about what she could say that would do them justice.
Mr. Burson, the owner and proprietor of Riverbank Books, had always reminded Dill of a shambling, humanoid badger. He wore small, wire-rimmed glasses on the end of his nose, and for all but the hottest months of summer, cardigans covered in cat hair, buttoned across his rotund belly, usually over a Merle Haggard or Waylon Jennings concert T-shirt. Dill always liked Mr. Burson. As a lifelong bachelor who loved cats and books, he was the subject of plenty of whispering and judgment himself, so he wasn’t about to visit it on Dill.
Dill, Lydia, and Travis walked in about a half hour before closing time (or the closest approximation thereto—Mr. Burson stayed open as much or as little as he saw fit), scattering three or four of the shop cats before them. Mr. Burson glanced up from his stool behind the counter, where he was reading some pulp sci-fi novel from the 1960s, absentmindedly petting yet another cat. Several guitars hung on the wall behind the counter. A forest composed of stacks of used books loomed around him, the usual spicy-vanilla scent of pipe tobacco and old paperbacks wafting in the air. Mr. Burson’s jowly face lit up when he saw Travis, one of his most loyal customers.
“Young master Bohannon!” he said in his wheezy voice, adjusting his glasses. “To what mysterious and fantastical lands may I offer you passage today?”
Travis leaned on the glass counter that housed Mr. Burson’s tiny museum of early editions of Faulkner, O’Connor, Welty, and McCarthy. “Actually, we’re here to find a present for Dill’s mom for her birthday, but while I’m here, could I place a preorder for Deathstorm?”
Riverbank Books’s stock was largely used. Mr. Burson traveled around in his battered and rusty 1980s Toyota pickup covered with nerd-joke (MY OTHER CAR IS THE MILLENNIUM FALCON), pro-reading (I’D RATHER BE READING), and vaguely political (COEXIST) bumper stickers, snapping up boxes of books at thrift shops and estate and library sales. But he carried a small stock of new books and took special orders for people who didn’t use Amazon and/or preferred to support their local bookstore.
“Ah, yes, Deathstorm. The new opus from Mr. G. M. Pennington. Aren’t you lucky I don’t sell books by weight?” He chuckled, got out a tattered ledger volume, and scribbled a note to himself. “So, Travis, what do we think will become of House Northbrook in the final battle against the dark forces of House Allastair and their Accursed? Will the Queen of the Autumnlands intervene with her Raven Host? Will Rand Allastair’s bastard throw a wrench in the Allastairs’ plans by leading the Horsemen of the East in a gambit to capture the Gold Throne?”
Travis’s eyes glistened. He didn’t often get to talk about Bloodfall with real-life, flesh-and-blood human beings. He opened his mouth to answer.
Lydia interrupted them by making a time-out sign. “Hey-o, whoa, hang on, fair knights of the realm. Before thou dorkest out, we humble serfs beg thy assistance in finding a book for the woman who doesn’t like anything.”