Page 59 of Touch

Over time and due to her invisibility, she becomes less concerned about her nudity beneath the dress. Yet that isn’t the only transformation. After taking one final flight—above one world and below another—Love retracts her plumage. The panels sink under her flesh, where they remain dormant for more years than she cares to count.

Every night, she hugs herself to sleep as if the embrace is her little secret. It’s not just an affectionate touch she craves. She yearns to be matched.

Love wants love. From the way it looks, it must be heavenly.

20

It’s awful. This business of falling in love. The enigma makes her feel anger, envy, wonder, sorrow.

At dawn, Love paces and strives to talk herself out of the problem. However, this craving is a wild animal racing from here to there inside her. It’s impossible to catch, impossible to kill.

She is a fool. It can only be the first stirrings of love.

Yet there’s something more ahead, a final boundary she has yet to cross, the point of no return. Love cannot say how, but she senses that she’s close, so very close to this pivotal emotion.

Hoping to explain herself, she sets off into the village. It’s a drowsy winter morning, inky blue from the early hour. She reaches his house but finds it vacant.

The bookstore. That’s where he’ll accept her apology.

The laborious effort of walking through Evershire sets Love on edge. Piles of snow hamper her progress in a way it hasn’t before. Acutely, she feels the distance.

As Love travels through the main square, she crosses paths with another couple she’d matched. The two men hold hands as they step into a coffeehouse, which emits the aromas of roasted beans and chocolate. They were enamored from the beginning, bringing them closer together had required minimal effort, and they now look happy.

Are they, truly? How much of their love is their own doing? Has she served any pair with justice?

Supple golden light illuminates Georgie’s bookstore from the inside, the sight relaxing Love. The door is open, yet the sign indicates the shop hasn’t opened yet. Andrew doesn’t come here every day, though he could be helping the matriarch with an unexpected project. It’s worth having a look.

Love slips past the threshold, then tiptoes inside. The tunes of a flute, cello, and harp play over the ceiling speakers. It’s the sort of melody faeries would compose, if they were to exist.

A candle blooms beside the register where Georgie sits, her hair swept into a loose chignon at her nape and a blouse popping out of her skirt. She’s scribbling something into a ledger.

Love keeps her footsteps light as she migrates to the other rooms, finding them unoccupied, then returning to the main area. Georgie hasn’t moved from her perch, the woman’s head bowing in concentration.

“He’s not here,” she announces without looking up.

Love freezes next to the fairytale shelves. Surely, the matriarch must be talking to herself.

Georgie’s head rises, her eyes scanning the room. Love sags with relief. The shopkeeper discerns a spectral presence enough to call out, though she cannot see Love. Fanciful humans have done this before, desperate to believe a strange breeze is the ghost of someone they’ve lost.

“He’s not here,” she repeats. “But you’re here, I bet.”

Love clamps her mouth shut, willing the female to give up, which she does, returning to her ledger as if nothing has occurred. With caution, Love shuffles toward the doorway, determined to flee quickly.

“Of course, Andrew forgot some editing notes he made for his latest WIP.” Georgie grabs a leaflet, holds it above the candle, and lets it go.

Love leaps toward the paper and catches the item inches above the flame, then realizes her mistake. In her grasp, the paper floats midair before the woman’s eyes.

“Well, hell.” Georgie wipes her hands. “Oldest trick in the book. Pun intended.”

Damnation. Love is impressed and stricken over the rudimentary error. She refuses to move, arm stretched out, the editing notes hovering until Georgie plucks it from Love’s fingers.

“Iris, right?” the matriarch says, setting the leaflet on the counter and peering in Love’s direction. The taste and scent of the woman’s emotions suggest piqued interest. “Well, Iris. You’re trespassing, so I like you already. I approve of a spirited female with the balls to go after what she wants.” There’s no mistaking the protective glint in Georgie’s eyes. “But I also like a female with honorable intentions. So: Let’s talk about our man.”

Shock pins Love to the floor. She squares her shoulders, doing her best to appear dignified.

“Anything unattainable has its appeal,” the woman says. “Despite his status as a hermit, Andrew’s success—and let’s be honest, his face—makes him a catch rather than an outcast, though everyone in a three-mile radius would hate to admit it. People call him superior one second, then steal a long, horny look at his ass the next second.”

The matriarch glances toward the bookshelves, then returns her assessing gaze in Love’s direction. “I’ve known him since he was a little shit. Andrew’s indifferent to the effect he has, he isn’t comfortable in social situations other than book signings and livestreams, and yet when he introduced you to me? Iris, that was a whole new level of himself. It was like you’d lit a match to the guy.

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