Malcolm has the audacity to look betrayed, and Sienna summons the image of him hoarding the typewriter to steel herself. But then he says, “Of course, we know the rules, so we understand if the only choice is to write together,” and any sympathy goes right out the window, and off the cliff, and drowns in the cold tide below.
The editor frowns. “Well, this is certainly a shock,” he says, looking down into his glass as if it holds the answer.
“It’s been a long time coming,” says Sienna, surprised by the sadness welling in her anger’s wake. She refuses to cry, not here, in front of the editor. But she’s not above letting the wetness show in her eyes as she says, “But I really want the chance to show you what I’ve got.”
“Cold,” Jaxon says in what he mustthinkis a whisper, and is in fact loud enough for everyone to hear.
The editor hums to himself. “This poses an interesting dilemma,” he says. “I’m not sure Eleanor would approve of widening the pool. At the same time, this challenge is designed to find the best person for the job...”
He trails off, and the silence that follows is painful.
But then Priscilla intervenes.
“For what it’s worth,” she says, polishing her glasses, “I think they should be allowed to submit their own samples.”
Sienna shoots her a grateful look. But Millie glares, visibly annoyed. “But it’s not up to you.” Millie catches herself. “I mean, it’s not up toany of us. We can’t just go around changing the rules. That isn’t fair.”
“My point precisely,” adds Malcolm. Cate bobs her head in agreement.
Sienna tries not to feel wounded. But it’s hard, when even Kenzo avoids her gaze.
“You’re right,” says Priscilla pointedly. “It’s not up to us. It’s up tohim.” She flicks a pink nail at Rufus. “Mr. Beaumont?”
Fletch’s editor seems to consider. Behind his glasses, his eyes slide from face to face. “I understand your points,” he says. “But I think I agree with Priscilla.”
Sienna’s heart surges in her chest, even as Malcolm throws up his hands. Millie sulks, and Jaxon groans. “Great,” he says, in a deadpan voice. “More competition.”
Millie says, “Yeah,” and Cate wilts a little, but Kenzo rallies, lifting an imaginary glass to Sienna in a toast. “May the best writer win.”
“We don’t have any extra typewriters,” continues Rufus, “so you’ll still have to share. But that seems like a pretty minor cost.”
Sienna thinks about the black one sitting abandoned on Fletch’s bedroom desk, but she can’t mention it, not without making herself look a trespasserandpotential saboteur. There is, however, another solution. “Maybe I could use Millie’s,” she ventures. “Since she’s already turned in her ending.”
The YA author looks at her in abject horror, and it takes Sienna a moment to realize what she’s done. Priscilla closes her eyes and sighs.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” says Rufus with an indulgent smile.
“So much for blind judging,” Jaxon mutters into his beer.
Sienna flushes, but whatever guilt she feels is quickly subsumed by the reminder that she gets to write an ending. On her terms. In her words. For herself.
Malcolm looks like he wants to throw something, even if it’s just a fit. Instead, he fills his glass again, and all Sienna can think is,Go ahead and drink. It’s not my problem anymore.
“All right, then.” Rufus swings his hand down in an odd gesture, as if cleaving the space between Sienna and Malcolm. “And so,” he declares, “one becomes two.”
And just like that, Sienna’s mind kind of...snags.
It’s so silly, so small, but that’s the thing about inspiration. People ask where it comes from, like there’s one reliable place, a depot where every author goes to find their ideas, but the truth is, they come from everywhere. From the last line of a song you caught on the radio, or a snippet of conversation overheard on the subway. From the way a poster peels away from an old brick wall, or the sound of a teacup crashing to the floor, or the scent of smoke on the air at night, or any one of the thousand little things that snag your senses and change the course of your thoughts.
It’s just the strange magic of ideas.
And Sienna will never know if it’s the way Rufus said the phrase, or the gesture he made, or if the thought was already there, perched at the edge of her mind, waiting to be tipped, but suddenly Sienna’s bringing her thumbnail to rest between her teeth, her thoughts whirring because she knows, she knows, sheknows.
She knowsexactlyhow to end Arthur Fletch’s final book.
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