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Woman of Letters

By A. K. R. Scott

The squat, knobby she-troll brandished a teapot in one hand and motioned for Idra to sit with the other. “Something bracing, yes?” she rasped.

Idra nodded as she settled onto the spongy toadstool opposite her hostess. With a tip of her gnarled hand, the she-troll filled a china cup with strong, black tea, then offered it up. Idra summoned her courage sip by sip as the pungent brew puckered her lips and fortified her resolve.

“Not what you were expecting?” The she-troll’s eyes glittered as she tipped the teapot once more. This time the liquid that filled her own cup was straw-colored and crowned with jasmine-scented steam.

Another sip thawed Idra’s voice. “Not exactly.”

Something Idra could only assume was laughter clawed up and out of her hostess’s throat. “I never am. Some believe me to be an angel. Some a demon. But I am neither so high nor so low. I am just Bajin.”

“But you are the one, aren’t you?”

Bajin lifted a hand toward a dusty bookcase and crooked a finger. A book shot from the shelf. Creaking leather and fluttering parchment winged its way toward them like a great, ancient bird. Excitement bubbled in Idra’s chest. At last, she would have the answers her heart yearned for. Her teacup clinked against the side table, and she reached out, brushing her hand along the book’s spine.

Fingers snapped, and the tome darted away and landed in Bajin’s lap. “Why do you seek the book?”

Idra’s shoulders fell. She could still feel the cracked leather against her fingertips. So close.

She let her eyes linger on the aged cover as her mind drifted to a face with flashing eyes and a provocative smile. A handsome face, to be sure, and belonging to a young man of good fortune and family. He set her heart racing with his radiant confidence and his honeyed words. He was at once dangerous, and thrilling, and all-consuming, but…

She blinked, and the face shifted, the eyes softening around the edges and the smile curling into something tender. It was not quite so handsome, and it belonged to a young man of little fortune, though he was rich in honor and character. He warmed her heart with kindness and generosity, and she never felt more safe and cherished than when she stood by his side.

Idra glanced up at the she-troll, trying to puzzle out the words that would allow her a peek inside the book. Within it was written every true love story. Every happy ending. Her heart was at a crossroads, and only one path led to happiness.

But which one?

She decided on a vague version of the truth. “I need to make a choice.”

“Very diplomatic of you.” Bajin harrumphed. “Never mind. Keep your secrets. It doesn’t really matter. More to satisfy my own curiosity. Although…” She sighed. “That answer was very unsatisfying.” She waved her hand, and the book flapped over and settled in Idra’s lap.

Idra’s hands shook as she opened the worn cover and turned the pages. “Chapter 1: What is Love?” “Chapter 2: Words of Love.” “Chapter 3: Romance, an Exhaustive Definition.” Her fingers quickened, and the chapters began to blur past her eyes. Then, halfway through where the chapters had been marked, she spied a name: Aaron Abacrum. Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears as page after page swooshed by, past Barnaby Ingleside and Catherine Thatcher. Words flowed below each name, sometimes only a few sentences and sometimes an entire page. She sped through the alphabet until she reached the I’s. Her breath caught as her gaze fell on Ichabod Yancy. Biting her lip to hold back a squeal, she turned the page.

Idra Accosta.

And written below…

Nothing.

Idra’s brows pinched. She flipped the page, searching the back as if, perhaps, the words had been misplaced. But it was empty, too.

“I don’t understand. It’s blank.”

“That’s because it hasn’t been written yet,” Bajin said before taking another delicate sip of her tea.

Idra glared at her. “Then you must write it. Now.” All unease at her hostess’s form was gone. She hadn’t searched for this long—traveled this far—to return empty-handed.

The she-troll tilted her head to the side. A tuft of coarse, cinder-colored hair fell over one eye. “I can’t do that.”

Idra leaped to her feet, and her eyes darted around the room, looking without seeing. “But you must. You’re the author. You have to write it. I need to know which path leads to true love. I need to know my happy ending.”

“Why does everyone always assume I wrote the book?” Bajin muttered. She set down her tea, and her voice took on a placating tone. “I’m not the author of the book. I am merely the keeper.”

Bitter panic rose in Idra’s throat, and she threw her arms out wide. “Then where can I find the author?”

“If you only want to find the author,” said Bajin, “you needn’t have come all this way.”

With those words, she waved her hand again, and Idra felt something soft settle on one of her upturned palms. Her eyes fell upon the quill resting in her hand, and she struggled for breath.

The she-troll smiled. “Now, what will your story say? I can’t wait to read it.”


Can you guess which song from the 1950's inspired this story? Share in the comments!

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A. K. R. Scott, author of The Music Maker Series, writes clean YA fantasy with strong female characters, magical adventures, and a dash of romance. She spent her youth devouring books, and she honed her storytelling and character development performing live theater. When she’s not writing, you can find her making music, guzzling coffee, and fussing over her #bookstagram account. She lives in Texas with her husband, two daughters, one dog, and an ever-expanding library.


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