The Children(50)
And Guinevere nodded, committing herself to her big brother’s word. The unshakable law of Ennis. With every bit of herself, blessed by the breathing woods, she intended to keep this promise.
* * *
But when she stretched out to sleep that night, her fingers met the shape of a book beneath her pillow. And her mind lit up.
She knew at once what it was. Which parent left it there, she’d never be sure. She switched her lamp back on and bowed over its cover, studying their illustrated faces. Then she padded across the room to lock the door.
Beyond her windows the drowsing land was waking, readying itself for deeper night. All the million eyes of its nocturnal creatures were opening, two by two. Alone in the silent house, she began to read.
Twenty-Eight
Four days until Mother
If Bitsy were here, she would tell Guin to sit up and wash her face.
She did. She put on fresh lipstick and liner flicks and buttoned a clean white shirt to the neck. Famously Edith Sharpe had rocked a menswear look when she ventured off Farmhouse land, lean-cut suits like she was an early sixties rocker. People assumed Guin dressed in homage to her, when really she was dressing as Bitsy. Literally wearing her grandmother’s clothes, Halston mostly, impeccably maintained and trotted out for Ninth City events only.
At a quarter past seven a car came to carry her to a faded brick building in Soho, unassuming until you considered its footprint, its lofty address. It was a members club that, until the eighties, admitted only men. Its decor savored strongly of stag hunt. Regina must’ve decided the dinner was below her pay grade; it was Fern who met her in the lobby.
“Hi,” she said tersely. “You excited? This should be fun.”
That last bit a clear threat: You will make it fun. Guin smiled. “I’m pumped. Let’s do it.”
When she walked into the room she registered the guests first as a colorful smog. Bright-faced booksellers, invited from up and down the East Coast. It was the book that clicked into high definition: at every place setting, a copy of Ninth City Dreamer.
Hart & Crane wanted to use for its cover the Polaroid of her and Ennis that inspired the original Ninth City art. She fought them on it and won. The cover showed Guin alone, looking down from the branches of a peach tree. Over her head, the title was printed in the classic Ninth City font, followed in lowercase by the words A Memoir.
As people looked up from their drinks and saw her, the chatty din rose to a thrilled hum, followed by a smattering of spontaneous applause. Laughing, waving, she calculated the speed with which the waiters were dispensing wine and figured she had to keep it tight for an hour or so. After that the night would become elastic. Goodwill and alcohol would smooth away any friction caused by the sudden erosion of her ability to play the part of Guinevere Sharpe.
If Ennis were doing this job, he could nurse a Scotch and brood in silence, and his handsome male presence would be enough. She had to perform, to charm and delight. Book Guinevere was a spunky little SweeTart. Actual Guin had to be gracious.
The thing to do was start with a speech. Give them their money’s worth. She made it seem natural, an effusion of feeling sending her to the center of the room, making her press both hands to her heart as she addressed the gathered crowd.
She thanked everyone for coming. Thanked the ever-absent Edith, like a football player kissing their fingers to God. Edith was close enough to a deity in this roomful of book people, their arms tattooed with her words and bits of Ninth City ephemera, their child selves shaped by romps through her vampiric land. Guin wrapped it up right as a battalion of servers appeared with the salad course.
Time to circulate. This was a wedding and Guin was the bride, she had to sprinkle her glitter evenly. She leaned in and made appropriate noises when people showed her photos of their Architect cosplay, their Ninth City–themed wedding party, their goldendoodle named Guinevere. She pretended not to notice their excitement, bordering at times on erotic, when they saw the skinny stripe of scar tissue that pulled her eye out of symmetry. It had been written by Edith into book four, The Whistlebox Parable: the result of a magical attack. Another one of those shimmering catnip connections that allowed the distance between Guin and her book self to collapse.
Most people preferred their encounters with celebrity, even one as minor as hers, to be brief. The real pleasure came after, when she was gone and they could talk about her. She could tell at a glance who would be approaching her again later, seeking a private audience. It was something in the shoulders, set at a forward tilt, the impatient clasping of the hands. Fern moved in smoothly when these encounters went on too long, leaving Guin to touch their forearms fondly and pretend at regret.
Fern was elsewhere when a woman around her own age caught Guin between tables. The booksellers were digging into dessert—white meringue adrift in custard and drowned in cream, unsightly—and Guin was almost off the clock. She smiled tightly as the woman leaned in with a conspirator’s air and said,
“We’ve met before.”
She hated when people did this. Dropped that line then waited, testing her. Wanting to see if she treasured the memory like they did. “Oh, awesome. Was it at a festival?”
“No. We’ve met. A long time ago.” The woman had the carved curls of a Roman statue and dark eyes. She held her arms out like a Barbie, inviting inspection. “Now do you remember?”