He smooths the pocket square.
“As I’m sure you’re all aware, the fifth and final installment of that series is set to hit shelves later this year.” Millie nods along with the others. You’d have to be living under a rock—on Pluto—not to know that.
“However,” he goes on, “you’re probablynotaware that Arthur tended to view deadlines more like suggestions. Over the last few years, I’ve been told, wresting the finished drafts from his hands had become an increasingly difficult process.” He manages a wan smile. “And I fear it was only getting worse. These past few months my poor assistant, Holden, has been on the phone nearly every day, trying to get an update.”
Eleanor clears her throat. “Yes, Rufus, I think this group knows the eccentricities of authors better than most.” That’s what shesays. But her look saysRein it in. “The point—” she prompts, and he picks up the cue.
“The point is, Arthur assured me it would be atrulymind-blowing finale. A worthy conclusion for the indomitable Julia Petrarch. But as for the exact details, well, he kept those to himself... and then...”
Understanding ripples through the room.
But it’s Jaxon who says the words out loud. “Oh my god,” he mutters. “You’re saying he didn’t finish.”
Rufus looks to Eleanor, who draws herself up even taller as she stares at each of them, one by one. “Today is a sad day,” she declares. “Arthur Fletch was one of a kind.”
“Hear, hear,” says Malcolm, raising an imaginary glass. Eleanor continues as if she hasn’t heard him. “But it is also an exciting day. For all of you.”
“Hedidn’t finish,” Jaxon says again, a strange electricity in his voice. Millie frowns at him, confused.
Eleanor sighs. “Arthur’s deadline was two years ago.”
“Eighteen months,” corrects Rufus, ducking his head under her withering stare.
“And no, Mr. Knight,” continues Eleanor, “he did not complete the book. But he did email me the unfinished manuscript the night before he died.”
“That’s not suspicious,” murmurs Kenzo.
“He sent me his work in progresseverynight,” she continues.
So Fletch didn’t actually write his books on a typewriter. Millie had just assumed the guy was too old to figure out computers.
“It started as a way to save a copy, after his hard drive crashed back in 2011,” explains Eleanor. “But in recent years it became a method of accountability. And a fortuitous one it turned out to be. For you.”
Millie can still see the giant foyer, the stained-glass portrait of Petrarch herself glowing behind Eleanor’s silver hair, but her mind is racing now. She can practically hear the cogs turning in the other writers’ heads.
“Fletch was remarkably consistent in terms of word count,” continues Eleanor. “He despised authors whose books got longer and longer—bloated, that’s the word he used—as they became more and more successful. Each and every Petrarch book ended up within a couple thousand words of 100K. The manuscript he sent to me the night before his death stands at 90K.”
Ten thousand words? That’s nothing.
Millie’s standard is three thousand a day, rain or shine, but once, on a horrible deadline, she clocked a whopping seventeen thousand. Her hands hurt from typing and she could hardly bear to look at her screen the next day, but she still got those three thousand in, even if there were more typos than usual.
It’s extra sad, really.
He was so close to the end.
“Which brings us,” says Eleanor, “to the reason you have all been invited here this weekend...”
It’s impossible to tell whether her pause is a sign of hesitation or a flair for the dramatic, but Rufus sees it as a green light to jump in.
“We’re giving one ofyouthe chance to finish Arthur Fletch’s final book... to complete Petrarch’s arc... to writeThe End!” he says with a flourish.
The way he holds that pose, he’s clearly expecting applause, or at the very least aWhoop!or aWhoa!Some burst of enthusiasm.
Instead, he gets Millie, who raises her hand and says, “Like, ghostwriting?”
Kenzo inclines his head. “Why would we do that?”
The editor’s flourish collapses.
