Why would no one tell Autumn Gwyllion "no"?
The most obvious reason was her success. Her name was nearly household given the popularity of her debut romance novel,
On Tender Wings of Desire
, as well as its recent sequel,
The Supremacy of Desire
. Her reputation was plainly obvious in the interaction Florence now watched from across the bookstore:
"What's your name, dear?"
"Oh, ah..." The patron in question chuckled and glanced at the trailing line behind her. "I didn't actually bring a
book
for you to sign."
"Is that so?" Autumn set down her pen.
"I was hoping you could sign..." The patron's voice quieted past eavesdropping range. Autumn's glance fell down from the patron's face to her bust and back up again.
"So you didn't bring a book, then."
The patron shook her head.
"I suppose you'll buy another." She beamed and plucked a fresh book from the pile beside her.
"Oh, right. Of course, I'd love to support your..."
Autumn signed her name on the inside cover and pressed the book into the patron's hand. Dazed, the patron pivoted, adjusted her neckline higher, and wandered out of the store.
The flush on the patron's cheeks and nose alluded to another contributor: Autumn's looks. She was ethereally attractive. Her hair appeared to float around her head. The heavy wool of her skirts and petticoats danced around her legs like tulle when she walked the streets. She spoke quietly and perfectly; she pronounced the "g" in "-ing" words, never slipped into the twangy diphthongs Florence despised in her own speech. She maintained eye contact unflinchingly.
Autumn was otherworldly, which was perhaps related to the third, most important reason people rarely told her "no": she secretly led a demonic cult.
Florence hadn't known as much in the beginning. She only knew the headlines: "City Council Pledges Action to Combat Mounting Disappearances," "Werewolf Rampage Causes Property Damage in Northside Neighborhood." She had also noticed her politician husband working later, eating less, speaking little. So when he shamefully admitted that he had been asked to join a group that promised him endless power, limitless riches, an eventual takeover of the city, Florence was stunned, yes, but not necessarily
surprised.
Her response to his confession: "Who asked you?"
"There were a few of them grabbing my arms, my legs, pinning me in place," he whimpered. "Some more guarding the doors."
Florence narrowed her eyes.
"And the one in the middle," he added reluctantly, "she did most of the talking. She's a writer, one of the other city councilors. Autumn Gwyllion. She was the one who asked me to decide."
"And what did you say?"
Her husband averted his eyes, shrank into himself. "I said... maybe?"
Because saying "no" outright would have meant death, thought Florence. Because saying "yes" was immoral, saying "no" was suicide, and saying "maybe" bought him some time to think.
And because nobody told Autumn Gwyllion "no."
*****
"Florence Cornelius for Autumn Gwyllion," Florence announced to Autumn's assistant. The frown in their face revealed their confusion; they didn't recognize the name. They nevertheless stepped toward Autumn and whispered the message into her ear. Autumn's head lifted; when she found Florence in the crowd, a light smile bloomed on her face.
"I appreciate everyone's patience," she announced to the crowd, "but I'll be stepping away for an intermission. Please, enjoy the bookstore and refreshments. I'll return soon to continue signing."
Autumn floated through the crowd to Florence. "What a pleasant surprise," she greeted, with a kiss on each cheek. Florence's face warmed where Autumn's lips brushed.
"Yes, yes." Florence forced herself to sound terse. "I'd like to speak privately, please."
Autumn glanced back to her assistant, eyebrows lifted. The assistant gestured to a side room in the bookstore.
The two found their way to the crowded room of plush armchairs and carved wooden tables, something between a private reading den and a furniture storage room. Heavy curtains and dim gas lamps glowed like evening sunlight. Florence perched on a velvet wingback couch. Autumn fluttered onto an ivory chaise.
"To what do I owe the pleasure, Florence?"
Being the wife of a prominent city councilor and the owner of a fair share of businesses, Florence was a woman of stature. Her timid husband was dazzled by her directness and tapped her as his political advisor. On his behalf, she lobbied, she argued, she negotiated, she blackmailed. He voted.
If anyone could say "no" to Autumn Gwyllion, Florence could, she hoped.
She swallowed, inhaled, assumed a well-rehearsed posture.
"I've come to discuss my husband's invitation," she began curtly.
"Ah! Yes," Autumn replied, as if surprised. "Yes, he has left us waiting at the altar, hasn't he?"
"I'm sure you can appreciate his need to deliberate.'
"To deliberate. Of course." As she spoke, the assistant entered the room with a platter of tea and shortbread. Autumn caught a cookie as the tray passed over her shoulder. "I'm happy to answer any questions I can about the opportunity."
"Yes, well." Florence reached into the pocket of her skirt to unfold a sheet of paper.
The planned strategy was persuasive inquiry. The sheet listed questions designed to frame her husband as an unfit addition to the cult. Perhaps Autumn would turn her attention away from her husband before he had to outright decline. Florence aligned her thumb beside the first question as she prepared to ask:
"Although," Autumn interjected, "I admit our interest have shifted since his initial invitation."
Florence blinked, glanced up from the page. She hadn't rehearsed this scenario. "Oh?"
"Yes, yes," Autumn continued. Bergamot-infused steam clouded as she filled two teacups. "You see, my organization seeks an overhaul of the outdated council. We have too many members to accomplish tasks as quickly as a government should. The council lacks agility. Many of the issues of the city—our growing refugee population, religious discrimination, healthcare reforms—would not be possible under the current regime. I seek to address those issues from the top down with the help of the organization."
"The 'organization.'" Florence chewed on the euphemism. "It is religious, yes?"
"In a way. We're certainly supported by a powerful figure." Autumn lips curled slyly. "But I find the experience of other religions differs significantly from the experience I enjoy now."
Autumn apparently had an affinity for euphemisms.
