Page 80 of The Little Shop of Grand Curiosities

“What?” I heaved, not finding it so funny anymore. “What will you do to me?”

His eyes drifted upward. “And she wonders why I call her dangerous.” He withdrew his hand from my face and put some distance between us. “Will you just think about it?”

“I will,” I promised.

He nodded, and as he turned to leave, his eyes fell upon my nightstand and sparkled just to taunt me. “Lord Verlion, huh?”

I groaned. “Please, don’t mock me.”

Apollo pursed his lips, trying not to laugh. “No, I like this one.”

“You do?” I deadpanned.

“It has a nice epigraph, too,” he claimed as he went to pick it up and read aloud, “The day humans will stop writing and reading about love is the day humans will no longer be human.” He considered for a moment, and his handsome profile was no longer bright with amusement but dark with something like melancholy. “If love is really so defining to us, what do you suppose that makes me?”

“Apollo…” I whispered, my throat constricting and my insides twisting. “The broken parts of you do not make you any less human. You must know that.”

He didn’t acknowledge my words. He merely brushed them off and headed for the door, looking as insouciant as ever. “See you at the ball, darling?”

I sighed at the ceiling, resigning. “Will I have to watch you flirt with every woman who isn’t related to you all night long?”

He turned, hands in his pockets, head cocked to the side, and a smile that could make goddesses swoon. “What if I promise to only flirt with the ones who have silver hair, blue eyes, and hate my guts?”

I threw him a look of facetious defiance. “What if they don’t want you to flirt with them?”

“Then I’ll behave,” he said.

“Just like that?” I teased.

He bore into me, serious now. “For you, Nepheli, anything.”

For absolutely no good reason at all, my knees went weak. In fact, every single muscle, organ, and joint in my body went weak for this man. But I was too proud to let him know that, so I braced myself, put a wry smile on my face, and tried to make light of the situation. “I bet you a whole gold mark that you won’t even recognize me in that ballroom tonight.”

Apollo smirked. “Darling, I would recognize you anywhere.”

26

Apollo

Seven balconies outlined the outer structure of the ballroom, and on the fourth, larger one, Father stood in his formal tunic and trousers. His hands were crossed behind his back while his legs formed a habitual fighting stance.

It was no secret that my father didn’t have any magic in his blood, but I would argue that being able to recognize someone’s footsteps as easily as someone’s voice was certainly some type of magic.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said the moment I stepped onto the balcony, passing in between the gauzy white curtains that blew out into the night. Beyond, the sky burst into gemstone colors—uncanny blues and purples with pitch-black edges. “The ball is about to start.”

“Sorry, I’m late, Dad. I fell asleep,” I said, bracing my hands on the stone balustrade.

I was lying, of course. I had not fallen asleep. I had tried to write a letter. In the overwhelming familiarity of my childhood bedroom, I’d sat down at my writing desk and tried to put into words what was happening to me, to conjure answers to things I didn’t even know how to ask.

On a whim—a very selfish one—I’d invited Nepheli to stay here a little longer, but deep down, I knew she wouldn’t. I knew she would leave tomorrow morning. I knew there was not enough time to fully understand, let alone express, the way I felt about her. The fact that Ifeltaltogether, perhaps not with my heart but with my soul.

I was shocked to be even thinking about this. I should be relieved to get rid of her. I should want to be released from this torment. This random, persistent jab of sentimentality after seven years of numbness. I would be fine without her. Without her sarcastic remarks. Without her supercilious judgment. Without the rustle of her body in the morning. Without her beautiful laughter. Without her looking up at me like I was someone good and salvageable. Without her tongue stroking over mine.

But there were things I needed to say. To evict from my body. Things, I thought, they’d kill me to keep quiet.

So, I considered writing her a letter and slipping it into her bag. I’d imagined her discovering it somewhere along her journey, unfolding it carefully between her pale fingers, the way she did all things, and settling down at some cozy corner of the deck, the harsh sea air lashing back her hair and her florid lips parted in a shockedohas she skimmed the words. I’d imagined her being relentless, not regretting her decision to leave, but heartened to know that she was someone who touched people’s lives like that. Someone easily needed, thoroughly understood, secretly yearned for.

But I’d been unable to write such a letter. As it turned out, I was an embarrassingly nervous writer.Nepheli, I’d scribbled down, my penmanship a mess of curves—it had really been a very long time since I’d written anything down. Then I’d crossed it off.

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