My breath hitched. My brain stalled. My eyes stayed glued—embarrassingly—to those twitching ears.
Two soft, triangular cat-like ears.
On an actual person.
Right in front of me.
The girl narrowed her eyes further, her tail flicking like a metronome of irritation.
"…Are you going to just stare at me," she said, voice flat, "or are you going to help me?"
Her tone snapped me back into my body.
"I—yes! Sorry!" I blurted, scrambling to my feet with enough force that I nearly stepped on the fallen book. "Welcome to—uh—Bertha's Books. How can I—uh—serve—I mean help—I—um—"
Her brow rose. "You okay?"
Heat flooded my face.
"Yes! I mean—no! I mean—sorry! Your ears—"
Her eyes sharpened dangerously.
"My ears?"
"Oh gods—no—I just meant—um—"
Think! THINK!
"I've just… never seen someone so… pretty."
What the fuck was that excuse?!
Her ears twitched. Her tail froze mid-swing.
She stared.
And stared.
And stared.
Then blinked.
"…Huh."
We both suffered in silence for a painful second.
Finally, she crossed her arms. "Well, stop staring. It's awkward."
My whole soul shriveled. "Sorry."
"Good." She stepped deeper into the shop and sniffed theatrically. "Anyway. I'm here because my father said I have to read." Her voice pitched into a mocking tone. "'Literature builds character, Alya.' 'Books will make you a refined young woman, Alya.' Like I care."
She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might fall out. "Honestly. I swear he hates me."
I blinked, still reeling.
A beastwoman.
Talking.
Complaining.
In my bookstore.
She didn't seem to notice my shock as she plowed forward.
"He made me promise to pick up a book and actually read it." She made exaggerated air quotes. "For once in my life. Isn't that insulting? Honestly, what kind of father says something like that to his daughter—"
She cut herself off abruptly.
"Oh. I'm Alya, by the way. Alya Van Buqeat," she said, flicking her tail in a dramatic arc. "Count Van Buqeat's daughter."
Count.
So she was nobility.
I had read about noble ranks from the books Bertha gave me. Counts were moderately important. Not at the top, but definitely above common people.
And here she was:
complaining about being forced to read.
Meanwhile, I was trying to learn an entire world.
"Nice to meet you," I managed.
"Yeah, yeah," she muttered, clearly uninterested in niceties. "Just show me whatever stupid book you think will shut my father up."
Days passed. Weeks followed. Alya… stayed.
It turned out Alya hated reading with a passion so fiery it bordered on religious.
Every day she came into the store at around noon, tail swishing furiously as she stomped to "her" corner.
Every day she complained.
"This book is boring."
"Why is there so much text?"
"Why does 'history' matter?"
"These chairs hurt my tail."
"Why do numbers exist?"
"No, seriously, why?"
And every day, I tried to help.
Because somehow—despite being a loud, dramatic, complaining disaster—
she kept coming back.
She'd sit next to me, kick her feet up on the table (which Bertha yelled at her for), randomly throw herself backward in despair, then poke me and demand I explain whatever paragraph she didn't feel like reading. She acted like I was her older sister, making me take on the responsibility of teaching her.
Sometimes, when she got truly desperate, she would whine long enough that I'd end up reading aloud to her.
Even then, she complained.
"You read too formally."
"You talk too slowly."
"You talk too fast."
"You breathe loudly."
"This world is stupid."
"I'm bored."
"You're impossible," I told her once.
As if to reply she flicked my forehead with her tail. I yelped.
But despite the constant irritation, something warm settled between us.
Something like familiarity.
—like friendship.
I was getting used to her stubbornness.
Her dramatics.
Her sharp tongue softened by an oddly gentle heart.
And she seemed to enjoy my presence too—though she'd rather die than admit it.
Meanwhile, my own days took on a new rhythm.
Shelving.
Reading.
Work.
More reading.
And gods… there was still so much to learn.
Magic theory, history of the seven kingdoms, cultural etiquette, economics, how to speak properly, how to write without ripping holes in the paper—
It was overwhelming.
It was exciting.
And I was falling in love with learning.
The only complication came when customers asked for my name.
A name I didn't have.
A name I couldn't give.
"What's your name, dear?" a woman asked once.
I froze so hard my back popped.
"I… uh… I don't… remember."
Bertha swooped in like a hawk.
"She's still recovering," she explained smoothly. "Shipwreck trauma. The poor girl hasn't remembered a thing."
Customers always softened and apologized.
But every question left a small ache in my chest.
Who was I now?
A queen without a kingdom?
A survivor without a home?
Someone with no past, no future, and no name?
I shoved the thoughts down every time.
Because the present—
reading, learning, helping Bertha—
was easier to hold.
Safer.
One afternoon, after several hours of shelving books, I returned to the reading nook and slumped into my usual spot, pulling a text about magic circles into my lap.
Alya sat beside me, upside down in her chair, tail hanging over the back, declaring: "Books are evil."
I didn't look up. "Then why are you here?"
"Because you're here," she said automatically.
Silence.
Her ears twitched.
She suddenly realized what she said and bolted upright.
"I—I mean—because the BOOKS are here! And I HAVE to read! Obviously! Don't make it weird! Plus, i'm living in a tavern right now, it's not like they have their own library.."
I hid my smile behind my book.
Days blurred. Weeks passed.
Alya complained.
I learned.
Bertha laughed.
Life was still complicated.
Life was still uncertain.
But… for the first time in a long time…
Life wasn't unbearable.
And that was enough.