Текст книги "The Knight and the Moth"

Автор книги: Rachel Gillig

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Любовно-фантастические романы

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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

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“Where are we going?” the gargoyle asked sweetly, dropping pieces of stone from his wing as he followed Maude.

Rory caught himself on the wall. I felt his gaze on my face, in the air, in the broken pieces of stone around us. He didn’t say it, but I knew. He’d do anything I asked of him.

So I looked at him in his fathomless eyes. Watched as they lost their light. Told him, in a voice cold as stone, “Go.”

“Where are we going?” the gargoyle asked again. He looked back at me. “We can’t go without Bartholomew.”

I turned away, tears falling down my face.

“Wait—wait.” The gargoyle began to sob, more pieces of stone falling from his body. “I’m her squire. We cannot be apart.”

He had to be hauled away by Maude, who was already doing the same to Rory. I heard his wailing sobs on the other side of the wall. “Bartholomew!”

And then they were like all the other things I’d dared to love.

Gone.

The knighthood came into the courtyard, and I was just as I’d been all those weeks ago. Barefoot in the apple orchard, martyring myself.

“Have a little faith, Six,” Benji said, his voice stilted. “Can’t you see I’ve set you free?”

I looked over my shoulder, the ghost of Aisling still on me. Cold, beautiful, and disapproving. “Free, boy-king?”

“You don’t need the signs anymore. You’ve seen this world for what it is. A tale of lurid contradictions—a true story, and also a lie. You’ve known coin, knowledge, strength, intuition, love, life and death—and beaten them at their craft. You’ve known everything, Diviner. And to be all-knowing…”

The king of Traum smiled at me, his future queen. “What is a god, if not that?”

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Bear with me. There’s a story yet to tell.

Once, there was an author who caught Covid. It took her a long time to recover. And even when she thought she had, fatigue and brain fog remained like a bad houseguest, long overstaying their welcome. The author grew tired, then sad, then hopeless.

And she worried.

To be fair, worry warranted no immediate alarm. It happened to this author often and spiritedly. But she was writing a fresh book, and the two that had come before it were doing well (something to celebrate and decidedly not worry over), and yet she was struck down by the fear that her brain fog would not relent. That writing a third book would prove impossible. That it would be bereft of creativity—of magic. She cried many tears, convinced beyond reasoning that she had lost something precious. That her new story simply… wouldn’t be enough.

This isn’t a particularly unique tale of woe. Perhaps you, too, have experienced something good and, in its aftermath, in a moment of sickness or tiredness or humanness, thought, Well, that’s it—my skill is spent. All that’s left to do now is fail. I am but a frayed piece of thread. Spilled ink. A sad little butterfly crushed upon a wheel.

The truth is, creativity ventures hither and yon, like a mercurial cat. She will not thank you for forcing her into your arms, yet on a day of seemingly no importance, even when you are sick, even when you are hopeless, she paws at your door. Slowly, the author (you know this is about me by now, yes?) began to feel like herself again. Gradually, the creativity, the magic, returned. She wrote her third book. It’s about a woman who tries her best, an errant knight who falls in love with her, and a precious limestone gargoyle. It’s about what we lose and what we gain, the arduous journey of self-discovery—the painful, beautiful burden of living. I hope you’ve enjoyed it. To me, it’s enough.

Okay. On to the proper thanks.

To my husband, John, and my son, Owen. I think about Owen in his little yellow hat running next to our dog, Wally, on the beach, John’s hand in mine. What a wonderful, beautiful life we have.

To my family and friends, my greatest cheerleaders. Thank you for making me talk about my writing and for supporting it. I love you all so dearly.

To Whitney Ross, my agent, who reads all my early drafts and helps me more than words can express to get my stories in order. Every day is a day I am grateful to have you as a partner in this business. Your instincts and feedback and kindness and friendship are diamonds—I am made so rich to have them.

To Brit Hvide, my editor extraordinaire. Were this book a musical composition, I would be the frantic composer, scribbling notes and plunking madly upon my instrument, and you would be my metronome, my time signature, my key. You give me rhythm, you give me order, you give me perspective. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. You are full of magic.

To Nadia Saward, my other editor extraordinaire, from whom I was also blessed to have feedback for this book. You are full of wisdom and encouragement—your notes on the romance had me kicking my feet with glee. I appreciate you so very much!

To Heather Baror-Shapiro, my foreign rights agent. You are phenomenal! Thank you for taking such great care of my books. I’m so lucky to have you on my team.

To Mary Pender, who has stepped in to handle all my merchandising. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I appreciate your insight and care toward my career so much.

To the teams at Orbit US and UK. I blinked, and now we are on our third book together! Time is funny, and life is too, and mine feels utterly splendid that I am afforded the privilege to write with you. My bias is showing, but Orbit books are truly my favorites.

To Kalie Cassidy, whom I called when I was sick and despairing and asked, in a very little voice, “Is this book any good?” “Yes. Of course. Now go sleep all day.” You are wise and unbelievably talented and take care of my soul more than you realize. You are my writing wife. The Wirt to my Greg. All things in this strange profession are bearable with you as my friend.

To Sarah Garcia. Well, well, well. Here I am, a proud little toad to have written another book. I hope you’re happy with yourself. And watch this—I’ll even be vulnerable a moment. I’m scared a lot of the time to make mistakes. To flail and be “bad” at things. So often I am accepting of yesterday’s Rachel while pinning today’s upon the stage plate of a microscope. But you’ve helped me be kinder to myself, and have therefore changed my perfectionism, my writing, and my life. Thank you. Every book I pen wears the seal of our work together.

To the artists out there, working by pen or paint or note or whatever instrument you choose. How beautiful you are. How resilient you remain in this tumultuous world, keeping to your craft. Thank you. I believe in you as I believe in love—eternally.

To my readers. Oh, how I adore you. You followed me into the mist, and now you walk with me through moonlight, into hamlets and over stones and past gowan flowers. I cannot express how much gratitude I have for each and every one of you—words simply fail me. Somehow, that feels just right.

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