Free The Dream-Maker's Magic by Sharon Shinn Page B

Parmers—well, they would be appalled to find out what’s going on here at the tavern.”
    â€œObviously some people know,” Gyffin said with a ghost of a smile. “But I don’t know about all the respectable people. It’s not like I’m going to tell them. My uncle Frederick would just hate me even more.”
    â€œHe couldn’t hate you as much as I hate him ,” I said instantly.
    Now Gryffin laughed out loud. But he said, “I’ve never found that hate does much good. It’s better just to figure out what you can do to get out of the situation.”
    â€œStudy hard and go to Wodenderry,” I said.
    â€œThat’s my plan.”
    â€œMaybe Ayler will help you,” I said. “I like him.”
    â€œYes,” he said. “I have a feeling Ayler might help us both.”
    â€œAlthough sometimes it seems both of us have too many problems to be fixed by anybody,” I said with a little laugh.
    â€œThat’s what Summermoon is for,” said Gryffin. “To convince us to believe in magical possibilities.”

    Ayler was gone two days after Summermoon, none of our problems resolved. But it did seem that, as was true with so much in my life, events were put in motion during those lush green months. I practiced my boxing skills, finding an unexpected and useful sparring partner in Sarah’s youngest brother. The first time I successfully punched Carlon in the nose, drawing a satisfying amount of blood, was the last time he ever attacked me.
    Gryffin continued to spend the occasional evening outside on the back bench, or inside on the kitchen floor. I continued to despise his uncle, and to mull over what I might do to make him improve his treatment of my friend.
    My mother continued to rent out the parlor sofa as well as my bedroom, bringing more money to the household and more chaos to my life.
    And bringing more strangers through our door.

Chapter Eight
    C hase Beerin arrived late on a blustery fall day and told us he would stay a couple of nights on the sofa in the parlor. He was in his early twenties, with blond-brown hair that had a romantic curl, and brown eyes so dark they could not help but appear brooding. I had turned thirteen at the end of summer and was starting to look more like a girl, especially if I didn’t dress in disastrously ill-fitting clothes. I had started to spend time thinking about Sarah’s younger brother and two of the boys in class, wondering if they would notice me if I wore frilly dresses and tried to do something about my abysmal hair. I blushed for no reason and laughed at no provocation, at least when I was talking to one of the boys I admired. For the first time in my life, I really, really, really wished to be someone other than who I was.
    Chase Beerin was the handsomest man I had ever met.
    The first night he stayed with us, I honestly didn’t think I’d be able to breathe if he looked at me. I was afraid to serve him dinner because I thought I might accidentally touch his hand, and then I would start with mortification, and then I would drop the entire tureen of soup in his lap, and then I would have to die. When he asked me simple questions—about the price of the accommodations, the layout of the town—I turned a hot red and found it difficult to answer.
    He acted as if he didn’t notice my giddiness and infatuation. Maybe he was just used to such treatment from all the young girls he met; surely everyone must see him as an unparalleled paragon of perfection. Or else he thought I was a girl with mental deficiencies who actually functioned fairly well given that she couldn’t put together two coherent thoughts. During the three days he stayed with us, he always treated me with gentle courtesy and never, not even once, said anything that might be construed as flirtatious.
    He knew I was a girl, though, and I didn’t even have to tell him. Maybe it was because the shabby