Page 12 of The Little Shop of Grand Curiosities

“Could be poisonous,” Apollo considered, crossing his big arms over his chest.

“No, they’re not,” I huffed as I got down on my knees. I took a long stem and snapped it in half to show him. “See? The sap is perfectly clear. Now, if the sap is thick and white, then it’s poisonous. And if it smells bitter, then you will probably die. These are fine.” I popped a few in my mouth and moaned at their rich flavor. Either these were the sweetest berries I’d ever eaten, or I was indeed not very far from starvation.

“You read that in your little books?” Apollo taunted.

I did not take to his words very kindly. Yes, I had read it in a book. So what? I loved my books. And there was absolutely nothing wrong with that. I loved books more than cake, more than stormy nights and crackling fires, more than afternoon naps and waking up to a steaming cup of tea. I could go without many things in this life, but not without books. And he had no right to mock me about it.

I rose to my feet, ready to retort, but I caught him as he worked himself out of his cape and baldric, and I forgot what I meant to say. He had large, beautiful hands—long fingers, strong knuckles, and veiny backs. He could kill a man with those hands. He could probably make a woman tremble in pleasure too, but I wasn’t going to think about that now—never. I wasnevergoing to think about that.

He dropped his things on the ground and perched under the shade of a massive alder tree, its base flush with purple violas. The moss trailing up the gnarly trunk was a curious yellow color, and it almost sparkled when it caught the light.

Apollo let his head loll back on it, exposing his sunbaked throat to the sky, and shut his eyes, letting his long, dark lashes kiss upon his strong cheekbones. His face was full of strength like that. Chiseled lines and meticulous angles. And then his mouth, the exact opposite. Soft. Full. A tender curve.

A nice breeze swirled down the tree and whipped into his linen shirt. The fabric billowed around his chest, reminding me of a ship’s sails about to embark on a magnificent journey. It was strange, somehow, that someone like him could look so serene, so human. Just a beautiful boy basking in the sun on a warm spring day.

I had never thought of a man as beautiful before, and the notion startled me enough that I almost dropped all the berries I had gathered in my palm.

“You shouldn’t mock my books,” I finally said. “Books aren’t just sources of information or windows to the world or even lighthearted entertainment. Books are mirrors for our souls. They force us to contemplate every small and grand aspect of life, and then they make us question how we fit into it. Reading is such a self-reflective practice that you both find and lose yourself at once.”

Apollo opened his eyes and stared at me for a few seconds without saying anything. He was one of those people who could be looking at you very attentively—so much so that I thought no one could ever feel lonely under the beam of his attention—while keeping their face completely nonchalant. It made me so curious about the true nature of his thoughts that my skin prickled from the inside and burned on the outside.

He finally released me from his gaze and relaxed further by folding his arms behind his head. “I don’t disagree, darling,” he said. “But all this self-reflection means nothing if you never show the world the person you discovered in there.” He nodded at my chest, and my heart, strangely enough, skidded at the attention.

With a loud sigh, I went and settled down next to him, propping my parasol against the tree before brushing out my skirts. To my displeasure, I found the hem already green from the damp grass.

Apollo shifted, and his shoulder bumped into mine. His skin felt hot even through the layers of clothing. The heat raced up my arm, and my hand, for some reason, trembled as I offered him the berries. “Want some?”

“I’m fine.”

I munched on a few. “They’re delicious.”

“Enjoy them. You need them more than I do, anyway,” he said.

Nervously, I glanced down at my body.

Sure, I had lost some weight the past few months trying to live as economically as possible, but I was hardly a skeleton either.

“Don’t get all self-conscious now, I didn’t mean anything by it,” Apollo interjected, noticing my frown. “But I’m guessing that if you were willing to sell me that filthy little book, things have been pretty tight for you.” He raised his brows. “No?”

I groaned. “Only good thing about all of this is that you’ll never find out about…that.”

Apollo smirked to himself, some obscene little fantasy sparking up in his grey-blue eyes. “Darling, there are far more interesting ways to find that out than reading about it.”

I smacked him on the head with my free hand. “Don’t you dare flirt with me.”

His smile widened. “Afraid you’ll fall madly in love with me, Little Butterfly?”

I tipped my nose at the sky. “I will never, ever,everfall in love with you, Apollo Zayra. I’m way too smart for such nonsense. You can count on that.”

Apollo chuckled and picked a berry from my palm. “Good for you,” he drawled as he popped it into his mouth. “I might not eat hearts, but I am still an expert at breaking them.”

4

nepheli

The inn was unironically calledThe Mad Pitas the mud-splattered sign hanging crookedly from two rusty chains announced to us a hundred meters before the establishment itself emerged on a wide glade.

It jutted up on the sod like a broken-down brothel house, all audacious red planks, outdated stone beams, and stained glass windows with vulgar caricatures of little satyrs holding hands—and their private parts hanging out.

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