They join the others at the front door as Fletch’s editor, who could behers, if she gets this right, ambles down the castle steps.
“Break a leg,” he calls out, slippers crunching on the gravel. “Or a spine!” he adds, clearly delighted by his own book-related joke. He trudges back toward the cottage, wishing them all a good night, his paisley robe billowing in the breeze.
Kenzo shuts the door and locks it, and they all retreat to the kitchen. Sienna forces herself to follow, even though what she really wants to do is go write. Her thoughts are racing now, tripping over themselves as the pieces click into place, but she can feel the others watching her, and besides, she decides, she needs to sober up, clear the wine and vodka from her veins so she can think, and write.
Someone’s fixed a pot of tea, and she gratefully pours herself a cup. She takes a sip, half expecting something herbal, but she’s grateful to find it’s black tea, so strong it’s almost bitter.
She downs the cup, and as everyone else retreats to their rooms, she fills it up again and heads to the kitchen table. Armed with pen and paper and her second cup, she gets to work, savoring the way the pieces start to click.
Kenzo passes through at some point, making himself a coffee. Priscilla comes in to get a piece of fruit. But soon Sienna’s alone with her notebook, her thoughts, the minutes and the house melting away as she locks in, filling page after page with slanting shorthand, finding her way from the last words Fletch ever wrote to her own ending. Not just a way, but the right one, one worthy of Julia Petrarch and Arthur Fletch.
This—thisis why Sienna does what she does.
Because of how it feels when it works.
At some point the teapot is empty, and the house is quiet, and she’s made all the notes she can. All that’s left is to find the words themselves. To write.
She closes the notebook and slides off the stool, and it’s probably just the relief of knowing what to do, the aftermath of all those hours of anxiety, but fatigue suddenly rolls over her, leaving her lightheaded.
She closes her eyes, waits for the world to steady, and then starts for the stairs, expecting the dizziness to fade, but it clings on, weighing her down as she climbs. Each step feels a little steeper, and she has to stop more than once to steady herself. When she finally gets to their room, Malcolm is passed out on the bed, cheek pressed into the pillow, snoring the way he does when he is very, very drunk.
The bed.
Did it always look so soft? So welcoming?
She blinks, or at least she means to blink, manages the first half just fine, but once her eyes are closed, they don’t want to open again. The darkness stretches out behind her eyes. The notebook slips from her hand, lands with a soft thud on the floor as she stumbles toward the bed.
She doesn’t remember lying down, but she must have, because when she comes back to herself, she is curled on top of the duvet, Malcolm snoring steadily somewhere behind her.
How long was she out? It could have been five minutes. Or five hours. She can’t make out Malcolm’s watch. The darkness in the room is absolute. Even through the window, there’s no moonlight bouncing off the waves. No lights on the mainland in the distance. No stars.
She sits up, head spinning, but through the fog, the idea is still there, waiting to be written. She has to get it down while it’s still fresh. But when she stands, the floor wobbles, rocks, like she’s back on the little boat, cutting through swells, the island like a promise in the distance, and when she spots her notebook on the floor and bends to grab it, she ends up on her hands and knees. And there’s a tiny voice in the back of her brain sayingWeird, sayingWrong, but Sienna shoves it aside.
She grabs the back of the desk chair, waits for the world to steady before sinking into it and bringing her hands to the keys. Blowing out a breath, she starts to type, but the firstclack-clack-clackis so loud that Malcolm grunts and rolls over.
Sienna holds her breath and waits for him to settle, but when he does, her fingers hover over the keys. If she types, he’ll wake up, and if he wakes up, there will be a fight, over the book, or the typewriter, or the marriage, and she just needs to get the ending down in peace.
Sienna looks down at the typewriter, wishing she’d had the sense to grab Millie’s earlier, deposit it somewhere safe. And quiet. But she didn’t, so now she’ll either have to wait until tomorrow—or haul this one somewhere else.
She stands and grabs the stack of paper, jams it in the crook of her arm before hauling the typewriter off the desk. She nearly stumbles. It’s heavier than she thought it would be. A solid block of metal—she nearly drops it on her toes. She stops for a second, gazing down in wonder at the amazing wiggliness of her toes inside her socks.
Sienna shakes her head, then adjusts the typewriter and shuffles toward the door, fumbling it open. The library. She’ll go to the library. She creeps along the hallway, and it’s actually kind of fun. Like being a kid again, sneaking out of your room in the middle of the night.
Her foot is skimming the top stair when she remembers: Wite-Out. It was right there on the desk, and she forgot it. She should go back, but between the call of the bed and the presence of her soon-to-be-ex, it’s too risky. She’ll just... not make any mistakes. Be perfect. Like God. Or Jon Hamm.
She met him once—well,metis the wrong word, but she saw him across the room at a restaurant, and good lord. Who knows—maybe when she’s a bestselling author, when she’s the next Fletch, Jon Hamm will come to her,beggingto be in the movie adaptation. Andof courseshe’ll say yes. And then he’ll fall in love with her.
Sienna giggles softly to herself. She’ll have the last laugh, she’s sure of it. And she who laughs last laughs—
Just then she hears something—the wind against a shutter, or a door creaking open, or a footstep on the wooden floor—but when she turns toward the sound, the sudden motion makes the hall tip, and Sienna tips with it, thrown off kilter by the weight of the typewriter in her arms.
She doesn’t mean to step back, but her body does it anyway, and her heel hits the edge of the top stair, and there’s a horrible moment when she’s caught between falling and finding her balance.
At the last second, she manages to steady herself on the landing, nervous laughter escaping in a puff of air. She waits for her heart to settle, for her vision to clear, and then she turns, ready to start down the stairs.
When a pair of hands slams into her shoulders.
And she falls.
