I’mup before the sun. Every morning, I rise in the wee hours, and in my nightgown and crushed velvet paisley-patterned robe that makes me look extremely bohemian, I go to the east wing, where I’ve made one of the small libraries into my writing studio. Beyond the shelves of books, there is a large green sofa and a red leather wingback chair next to an arched stone fireplace.
Over the past few months, I’ve dreaded my morning ritual. Most days, I have to drag myself here. I sit in front of an empty screen and feel just as vacuous as it is. Occasionally, I’ll put myself out of my misery and practice my mother’s old piano in the corner.
But today there’s not a dull ache of dread behind my eyes. Today, there is a hum pulsating through my body. Something I haven’t felt for a very long time. Desire. A desire to put words on the page.
I quickly make a fire in the hearth, then start on the second order of business: coffee. After filling the back pitcher of the Keurig with water, I wait impatiently for the sweet aroma of coffee to fill the room. Snatching the cup as soon as the last drop ripples into the brown liquid, I bring the fresh coffee to my lips, the earthy aroma only raising my excitement.
My writing desk sits in front of a window that overlooks the grounds. The field below is black, the tall blades of grass silhouetted against the midnight blue of the sky. The sun still won’t rise for another hour or so. This is my favorite time to write. Just me and the faeries.
For the last step in my ritual, I light my candle and shove the negative thoughts out of my brain. With coffee steaming next to me, I sit in my blue tweed chair and open my laptop. My fingers fly over the keys. It’s like someone turned on the water, and what had been a leaky faucet is now gushing. Or the Fall of Foyers after days of heavy rain. The words don’t just pour out… They are torrential. My fingers can hardly keep up.
An hour and seventeen minutes later, the sun is rising above the hills, and I have written almost an entire chapter. I’ve never written that much that fast, even on a good day before. It must be the genre switch. Maybe I was always meant to write romance. A tiny voice deep inside tells me it’s something else. It echoes in my chest.It’s the muse. It’s him.
I stand and stretch. That’s ridiculous. I’m attracted to Miles—of course I am. Who wouldn’t be? He’s indisputably handsome. He’s a Hollywood heartthrob, for Pete’s sake. But a muse? Come on.
Back in my room,I throw on clothes. The demon chickens won’t feed themselves. The day is golden, sun shining through an opening in the clouds, sparkling on the dew like glitter on a nightclub floor. Or so I imagine. I’ve never been much of a club girl, but my heroine in the second cozy mystery I wrote was. It looks like nature partied all night, and this is the aftermath. Beautiful, silent, and still. Well, silent until I get to thechickens.
After the chickens are done and I escape with my eyes, I go to the barn where the horses are. We have five Shetland Ponies. I love them all, but my favorite is Pippi. She was born when I was eight and obsessed withPippi Longstocking.I read my late grandma’s copy over and over. In the novel, Pippi loved her red hair and it made me feel better about mine.
“Hey, Pippi.” She nuzzles into my hand as I offer her a carrot. “We’ll go for a ride later today, okay? In the afternoon.”
Maybe Miles would want to go too? In the light of day, I can see that I overreacted about the photo. It’s not like it was his fault, and his apology was so heartfelt. We could ride to the Loch, then maybe stop for a pint. My pulse quickens at the thought. If nothing else, it would be a great scene for my book.
Practically skipping back to the house, I picture Miles’s strong hands gripping the reins.
My father is in the kitchen and hands me a cup of coffee. “Here ye are, pet.” His face breaks into a smile. “Don’t you look happy today. I see you’re over the whole thing, you know, the internet.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Yes, Dad, I’m over the entire internet.” My face actually was plasteredall overthe internet, but by now, people are already on to the next thing, hopefully. I take a seat at the table in the corner of the kitchen, with a large lead-paned glass window on one side and the fireplace on the other, and pull my phone out of my sweater pocket. I scroll to my Instagram and drop my phone on the table.
“Alright there?” Dad sits at the table, adding two plates of eggs, toast, and bangers.
I pick my phone back up. “Yep, just slipped. Cold fingers.”
My fingers are cold, but that had nothingto do with the slip. I have—I look again because I just can’t believe it, but it’s true—I have 13,000 new followers to my little IG writing account. My handle is @writteninthe_Skye. A little cheesy, but also clever, without being too clever. I started it when I queried my first book, four years ago now. It’s never had much of a following. My posts are sporadic at best. Agents and publishers these days want to see you have an online presence, so I chuck a picture of myself with my laptop or a notebook up there every couple of weeks. My best picture by far—most liked as well—is a picnic blanket at the Fall of Foyers, laptop open, steaming thermos, and my legs, which I thought looked rather nice that day, in black stockings and my green wellies stretched out in front of me. I click on it now, and the twenty-seven likes it once had has skyrocketed to over eight hundred. People have shared it.This is madness.
I quickly go to my website and check out the backend metrics. Over a thousand people have visited my website since I checked last week. Over a thousand! People have signed up for my newsletter. Holy hell. This is huge. I’ll have to actually write a newsletter to send out.
“Y’alright?”
A smile takes over my face, and that hum I had this morning has turned into a vibrant buzz. I feel like one of those New Yorkers at the crosswalk—a barely contained ball of energy.
I need to find Miles, accept his apology, and then maybe invite him on a horseback ride.
“Have you seen Miles?” I stand, grabbing my plate and cleaning it. I’m too excited for food this morning.
“He left.”
All the blood that had been electrically coursing through me drains to my toes. “He left?” It’s not possible. Maybe he just left to exercise or visit the cattle. He seemed quite enamored with Bessie. “When? Where did he go?”
“I gave him a ride while you were out doing your chores. He said he needed to do some more research, but if you ask me, I think he was just trying to give you some space after the wholeFHYthing.”
“YHF.You Heard it First.”
Dad shrugs. “Right.”
“Did he say when he would be back?” This is not possible. Did I really drive him away? The first handsome man who had come to town in nearly an age, and I made him leave.
“Nah. He left his number.” He pats his pockets, and I silently pray that my father, who can lose his reading glasses while they are sitting on top of his head, did not lose the number. Please.
