She’s not sure what to do with the new pages, since the editor took off.
But Rufus Beaumont will come back—he has to—and when he does, she’ll just explain the situation. And if he hasn’t read her ending yet, even better; she can just tell him to swap the pages out, say she wanted to deliver a more polished draft. Maybe he’ll even appreciate that she went the extra mile, see it as proof that she’s willing to do the work.
It was actually pretty fun, getting to climb into Julia Petrarch’s head, figure a way out of the corner Fletch had forced her into, find out what—or really, who—was waiting behind that tunnel door. It was the kind of high-stakes, held-breath drama that Millie Mitchell understood, the kind of place she thrived, and before she knew it, she’d crashed into the finish line, those two glorious words printed on the pale-blue paper:
The End.
She couldn’t wait to turn it in, and when Rufus showed up last night, it took all her strength not to ask if he’d gotten any entries yet, even before Sienna went and spoiled the mystery. Millie was mad about that, but also a tiny bit relieved.
It wasn’t until later, when she was pleasantly buzzed and drifting off to sleep, that it hit her with a sudden, sinking horror: She’d written the ending in first person. It was just habit, really, muscle memory, and it hadn’t helped that the last line Fletch had written wasI should have known—I, notshe, thanks to the fact it was an internal thought—but oh god, Rufus was going to think she was a fucking idiot, and she’snot.
There was nothing to do but start over, rewrite it all in the third person POV.
Luckily, her memory has always been good, and even if she couldn’t re-create what she’d written word for word, that was fine, it came out even better the second time around. She pulled the last page from the typewriter and stood, buzzing with excitement.
From the window, she could see that the lights were on down in the editor’s cottage, which meant he was still up, even though it was late. If she wanted to, she could knock, explain the whole situation, and hand him her new ending.
Of course that would be breaking the rules.
Butmaybe, if she made enough noise putting the pages through the door, he’d hear and come out, and then it wouldn’t be her fault.
Millie was still weighing this option when the cottage door opened, and who should come swanning out in pink pajamas?Priscilla.
Confession: When it came to Priscilla, Millie was not a fan. It had nothing to do with the fact she wrote romance, andobviouslynothing to do with the fact she was Black (Millie had literally donated to two separate fundraisers for diverse books and called out a panel one time for havingnowriters of color). However, it did haveeverythingto do with Priscilla’s unshakable holier-than-thou attitude. The way she radiated disapproval, eyeing Millie with a kind of teacher’s scorn. The way she jumped at the chance to take control of every single situation, like she was the only designated adult in the room, and went out of her way to always remind everyone about the rules.
(Millie’s therapist has told her that she has a problem with “parental figures,” that people with complex childhood trauma either go around looking for replacements or distrust them, and Millie admittedly falls squarely into the I-don’t-need-your-mothering camp.)
(But also, what kind of psychopath uses a red pen???)
So she experienced a private spike of outrage at seeing Priscilla herself breaking the cardinal rule, striding right out of the editor’s cottage in the middle of the night, bold as you like, as if the rules she cared so much about didn’t apply to her.
And Millie was not about to let her get away with it.
She didn’t bother with a jacket or shoes, bolted out of her room and down the stairs, making it to the front door just in time for Priscilla to walk through it.
“Well!”
Priscilla just about jumped out of her skin. “Sweet mother of—” Her hand flew to her chest. It was the first time Millie had seen the woman looking anything but serene. It was reassuring to know that her poise could be shaken. “Millie. What are you...” She looked over her shoulder, through the open door. “I was just...”
Millie arched an eyebrow, waiting for the excuse. Priscilla sighed, and retreated back through the doorway onto the front step, and Millie followed, leaving the door ajar behind them.
So they could talk.
“Go on.”
“I just needed a little fresh air,” Priscilla explained, with condescending calm. “My head was a little fuzzy... too much wine at dinner. So I took a little walk.”
“In the middle of the night?” asked Millie, twisting her face into a mask of innocent surprise. “To theeditor’scottage?”
That wiped the smugness off her face. Millie smirked. “I thought we were given strict orders not to interact with Mr. Beaumont,” she said, feeding Priscilla’s exact words back to her.
“I... I wasn’t...” She rolled her eyes. “I was worried he might have a concussion. Didn’t want him going and dying on us in the middle of the night.” Her tone had slid into something chummy, almost conspiratorial, and Millie might have bought it, if she didn’t sound so flustered. She gave the woman a once-over, and then it dawned on her.
“Oh. My. God,” she said, dragging out the words with giddy glee. “You were trying toseducehim.”
Priscilla recoiled. “What?”
It made so much sense. “That’swhy you tried to get him up to your room earlier, isn’t it? No wonder you didn’t want any of usfraternizingwith Rufus... you wanted to fraternize the shit out of him!” Millie shook her head. “I guess that must beonebenefit of writing romance... knowing a trick or two in the bedroom.”
