Prince on Paper

Chapter 1

 The smell of old books fills my unconscious mind. The comfort and security that comes with the smell warms me from the inside and I bring myself to look around the bookshop office that I'm standing in. Grand-mére sits in her high backed red leather chair, working on something at the desk. Wanting to take a step towards her, I'm frozen in place. Forced to simply watch as she works. The door to my left opens and I watch as my younger self walks in, a small terracotta pot with a pitiful, wilted flower in my hands.

"Grand-mére, I killed it!" Younger me sobs, tears near breaking point in my eyes.

My grandmother turns, her hair in a thick black braid hung over her shoulder. She smiles kindly and holds out her hands. "Let's see, hmm?"

Sniffling, I watch as the young me hands over the pot. Worry for the poor plant fills me as the hands it's passed from are shaking non-stop. Memory of that day ignited, I'd gotten the plant from the market, grown it from a bulb and had begged her to let me keep it in the front window of the book store. She had agreed, if only I promised to keep the plant healthy and beautiful. Now here I was, crying because the poor plant hadn't gotten enough water with the direct sunlight.

"Now now, ma petite fleur, we'll just let it sit in here and cool off for a bit, okay?" Grand-mére soothed.

Child me was sobbing at this point, fists wiping away hot tears. Grand-mére simply smiled and set the plant on her desk. She watered it lightly with the copper watering can she kept in her office for all of her other plants.

"Now, how about we get some lunch, hm?" She stood and led the younger version of me out of the office.

I remain frozen in my place, still unable to move. It's always the same thing with this dream. I can nearly count it down exactly by this point. A soft green light comes from the potted flower sitting on her desk. No reason why, but soon the green light fills my vision.

The warmth of my bed surrounds me and I force my eyes open to stare at the green wall of my bedroom. Stupid green light from the dream reminding me to wake up. The brightness coming through the window is enough to know how cold it is outside. A blessing and a curse to know the temperature based off of the light brightness. Pulling the covers up over my head, I squeeze my eyes shut again in a vain attempt to return to sleep. Sadly, my phone alarm goes off across the room, forcing me out of the warmth and across the cold floor. Pure torture not having heated floors. But, the day must get started so there's no going back to bed now.

Clicking the alarm off, I quickly tug on jeans and a pair of wooly socks. Only the best for my poor feet in the weather. As I brush my teeth I respond to a few text messages from several employees.

Amanda, one of the head booksellers and what I assume would be a manager (if we had such titles) updates me about the shipment of books that are due to arrive. She's already called in Claire to come in early to assist in unloading. The other messages are from Xander, the barista for the shop. His texts are simple, but multiple. Rather than sending the whole thought as one message, he chooses to type out everything individually and send me ten messages to Amanda's one.

Just to confirm my theory about the temperature I check the weather and pull on a chunky, thick sweater before grabbing my keys. It's just at 20 degrees fahrenheit. Stuffing my boots on I quickly leave the small apartment and don't bother locking the door behind me. One of the many benefits to living above the shop you own, not having to lock your doors.

Down stairs, the bookshop is dimly lit. No lights are on and the curtains are pulled shut. The only light coming through is from the stained glass window on the door. Patches of green and blue hit the light wood floors from the colored glass pieces. Unlocking the front door for Amanda and Xander, who are due to arrive in a few minutes, I begin pulling back the cream curtains. When my Grandmother designed and decorated this shop, she did so with anything that brought a sense of fairytales and magic. Stained glass, a fireplace, towering bookshelves. It all reminded me of Belle from Beauty and the Beast when I was young. A small chime from the door and I look up to see a patch of curly red hair just peeking out from a thick coat and under the snug beanie.