Priscilla snorts under her breath.
Eleanor pinches the bridge of her nose. “Because, Mr. Gray. The author who wins this job—and have no doubt, you will becompetingfor it—will be generously compensated. You won’t have your name on the book, of course, and no one can know you had a hand in finishing it, but youwillreceive the remainder of Arthur Fletch’s substantial advance, as well as a three-book deal with Mr. Beaumont and Merriweather Press.”
Millie’s mouth has gone dry.
She wasn’t allowed to read Fletch’s books, growing up. To be honest, she hadn’t read any of them until the invitation came. But she’d had three weeks to correct that problem, and plowed through all four Petrarch novels before she got on the plane. Jaxon teased her for it when she told him on the boat.
“You gave yourself homework? Did you think there’d be a test?”
Now Millie has to bite her bottom lip to keep from smiling.
This is her chance.
To salvage her career, to redefine herself. A fresh start. A fresh genre.
Who knows, maybe if she wins, Eleanor will poach her from Dan, and then—
“Why us?” A small voice. A big question. Cate tugs at the hem of her cardigan as soon as the words are out.
Eleanor inclines her head. “Why you?” she echoes.
“Besides the fact we all queried you at some point,” says Sienna.
Jaxon looks around. “It’s obviously because we’re talented,” he offers, at the same moment Kenzo says “disposable.”
Millie flinches. Eleanor doesn’t. Her mouth is set in a tactful smile.
“Miss Newhouse,” she says, addressing Cate, “you are a promising young writer with uncharted potential. I’ve told you before, you remind me of a young Arthur Fletch.” Patches of red bloom on Cate’s cheeks, but before Millie can succumb to a fresh swell of bitterness, Eleanor goes on. “And the rest of you, you’veallproven that you have the necessary chops for this job. You’re good at what you do. Not just good, you’re among the very best. And yet none of you have received the recognition you deserve. This is your chance.”
“Hate to point this out,” says Malcolm, though if anything, he looks positively smug, “but Sisi and I—and Cate, I suppose—are the only ones who even write in Fletch’s genre.”
“That is by design. Arthur always knew how to think outside the box, to find the unexpected angle. We—that is, Rufus and I—thought the variety could be stimulating. You may all write different things, but you have something in common. You’re firmly in the midlist.”
Midlist.
Industry-speak for books—and authors—that sell well enough to stay in print, maybe even eke out a living, but not well enough to end up on any bestsellers lists or see big royalty checks. The midlist is publishing purgatory, full of writers who can’t seem to break out, only break even. But it’s a constant struggle, and every time a debut author lands a fancy seven-figure deal, or a publisher cherry-picks its shiny new champion, it gets a little harder to stay afloat.
“Called it,” says Kenzo amiably.
“Hey now,” says Jaxon, hackles rising. “I’m notmidlist. Not even close! There have been loads of inquiries about my series being optioned. I’m expecting news any day. Especially since Timothée Chalamet was spotted readingThe Galactic Trialsin a Chipotle in Middleton, Wisconsin, a few months ago. You’ve probably seen the photo.”
It’s a rope, and Millie clings to it. “Oh, IloveTimothée Chalamet!” she says. “I wonder what he was doing in Wisconsin?”
“Perhaps paying a visit to the National Mustard Museum,” says Malcolm. “Fascinating place. Sienna and I spent a wonderful afternoon there a few years back. Didn’t we, Sisi?”
Sienna doesn’t look so sure about that.
“What was Chalamet eating?” Kenzo asks, barely managing to keep a straight face. “He strikes me as a burrito bowl guy. Chicken, I bet.”
“Who cares what he was eating?!” Jaxon’s smile is strained. “That’s not the point, dude. I’m just saying that notallof us are stuck in the—”
GOOOOOONG!
Millie jumps. Up on the landing, Eleanor is brandishing the gong mallet.
“As I was saying,” she drawls with all the warmth of an iceberg. “None of your books have been given the big marketing budgets or publicity opportunities.”
Millie frowns. They promised her those things when she debuted. But then she learned: Promises don’t cost them anything.
