Sienna makes her way downstairs and hears the crisscross of voices coming from the kitchen. But when she gets there, the word doesn’t really do the room justice. Technically, the galley in their New York apartment is a kitchen, it has the component parts, butthis—this is like something out of Downton Abbey, if the downstairs and the upstairs merged into one giant functional yet achingly aesthetic room. There’s a range cooker at one end, copper pots hanging from the walls, a marble-topped island that’s larger than her living room.
Priscilla and Millie are already there, the former popping the cork on a bottle of champagne, the latter perched on the marble island, hair wet from a shower and bare heels tapping against the dark-wood cabinets, mid-story about how Jaxon stripped down and dunked her in the sea—which Sienna thinks is a bit inappropriate, given how Fletch died.
“But oh my god, he’sso ripped,” adds Millie, blushing as she waves a hand at her midriff.
Sienna grimaces. No amount of muscle would make up for the little she’s seen of that man’s personality.
Behind her pink glasses, Priscilla cocks a brow. “Did you find time to read the pages, in between your adventures with Mr. Knight?”
Annoyance flashes across Millie’s face.
“ObviouslyI did that first,” she says. “I’ve always been, like, areallyfast reader.”
“If I could have any superpower...” Cate drifts in, clutching a copy of the first Petrarch novel to her chest like a totem. “Right now it would definitely be that.”
She tosses the book onto the counter and presses her palms into her eyes. “It’s beenagessince I read these.”
“I’m surprised you ever did,” says Sienna. “You must have been in kindergarten when the first one came out.”
Cate smiles shyly. “My mum’s always been a big fan. So we had them around.” She pulls the sleeves of her cardigan down over her hands, and Sienna mentally pockets the gesture. There’s something endearing about it, vulnerable, the sort of thing a character might do to indicate some past trauma. Or maybe she’s just cold. It is, in fact, freezing in here.
Scotland in March, who knew?
“Anyway,” says Cate, “I thought I should reread them, but at this rate it’ll take me all weekend just to catch up.”
Fear lances through Sienna. Shouldshebe doing that? She has a vague memory of the previous books, but it took all afternoon to read the newest, and it’s not even done. Besides, seventy-two hours is barely enough time to come up with an ending.
Of course, they don’t have seventy-two hours anymore.
She checks her watch, and flinches as she does the mental math.
They’re down to sixty-eight.
She’s always hated deadlines. Malcolm would insist he works best under pressure, but that’s a crock of shit, he’s just not good at managing his time. Sienna’s always been the one to keep an eye on the clock.
She wonders, absently, what he’ll do when she leaves.
Guilt flashes, like heartburn, in her chest, but she squashes it as Priscilla reaches out and rubs Cate’s back. “I’m sure the editor cares more about the cleverness of the idea than whether you can make a callback.”
And even though the words weren’t meant for her, Sienna finds herself clinging to them. Priscilla’s right. Surely the editor understands. Writing a book is like building a house. There’s a time for putting up walls and a time for decorating rooms, and this right here, what they’re being asked to do, it’s carpentry.
Priscilla pours a glass of champagne for Cate, but she shakes her head, and Millie groans and says, “Oh my god,pleasetell me that you’re old enough to drink.”
Sienna and Priscilla both laugh, and Cate flushes. “I am,” she says. “I just turned twenty-two.”
Millie manages an awkward chuckle. “Oh god, that makes me feelancient,” she says, which makes Sienna want to crawl out of her skin. She turned forty-two last month, which isn’t old, but this conversation is making her feel like it is.
She remembers her thirtieth birthday, when Malcolm brought her a cake with all those candles crammed on top, and how she looked into the thirty little flames and burst into tears because she’d never be a prodigy.
And Malcolm laughed. He laughed, and laughed, but did nothing to console her. Because it was true. If you succeed before a certain age, then society deems you extraordinary.
But after a point, no matter what you do, you’re not special.
You’re just good at your job.
Not that she’deverwant to go back to being twenty-two.
Especially not twenty-two inpublishing.
