Priscilla sighs, wishing she could disappear into her chair, that it might swallow her up, the way the couch seems intent on consuming Kenzo.
The room is full of furniture, none of it matching. Since she entered the room first, she had her pick, and opted for the high-backed chair. It seemed like a good idea at the time, compared to the sagging sofa and the stiff little ottoman, but now makes her feel like she’s somehow in charge, presiding over this strange assembly instead of simply part of it.
The whole drawing room is... aggressive. Hunting trophies decorate the walls, though she doubts anyone would be able tofinda moose on Skelbrae, let alone kill and dress it. But atmosphere clearly trumps authenticity. At least in here.
Priscilla was actually the first one to arrive at Fletch’s house.
Her voice echoed through the halls, but no one answered, and she spent the next twenty minutes wandering from room to room, savoring the quiet and Arthur Fletch’s other, less morbid trophies: the relics from his work. It was a thrill, to see the gun at the heart of Ashbolt’s first case. The infamous hatchet used by the killer in the Bellamy books.
People are always surprised to find out she’s a fan. But that’s what she loves about novels. They’re not like prescriptions. A good story is a good story, regardless of who it was written by, or for.
Millie’s high voice pulls her back.
“Okay, so the game!” she says, sinking cross-legged onto the ottoman with the casual limberness that ends at thirty. “I thought we could guess what kind of books everyone writes!” She talks in a way that adds exclamation points, excitement brightening the end of every sentence.
Malcolm and Sienna settle on a loveseat that would be big enough for both of them, if Malcolm didn’t sit himself squarely in the middle. Sienna ends up squeezing herself into the corner. “Ah,” he says, “tipped the cards on that one, then. Penn Stonely is a thriller writer. But can you guess whatkind?”
Jaxon looks over from inspecting one of the dead animals on the walls and clears his throat.
“I’ll go with police procedural,” he says, leveling a finger gun at the loveseat. “I’m thinking a rogue FBI agent. A woman. Doesn’t play by the rules, but man, she gets results.”
Malcolm shakes his head, laughing. “Always a pleasure to meet a fan!”
The guy guffaws. “Oh shit, was Iright?”
Malcolm’s face falls, just a little. Sienna pats his back.
“Who’s next?” asks Millie, looking around.
Kenzo wrests himself free of the sofa and stands, cracking his neck.
“Let’s see,” he says, pointing at the jock. “Jackson, was it?”
The gym bro bobs his head. “Yeah,” he says, crossing his forearms. “With an X.”
A small bark of a laugh cuts through the room, and Sienna’s hand flies to her mouth. Priscilla smiles, stifling her own amusement.
“Sorry,” says one half of Penn Stonely, clearing her throat as if it was a cough.
“Jaxon, with an X,” repeats Kenzo, “is clearly sci-fi.”
Jaxon lets the theory hang a moment before he smirks. “What gave me away?” he asks, and if Priscilla felt like wading in, she might say he looks like someone who invests in crypto and reads articles on biohacking, and says things like “Science fiction is the precursor to science fact.”
But she doesn’t. And apparently neither does Kenzo, since he only shrugs and says, “Just a hunch.”
Jaxon nods, clearly taking it as a compliment, before swiveling his blue-eyed gaze on her.
“And what about Priscilla here?”
She resists the urge to rearrange herself in the high-backed chair.
She’s always been a fidgeter, much to her parents’ chagrin. They could sit still for hours, reading books or grading papers, but she has the kind of energy that bubbles up like steam. A pen tapping restlessly against a notebook. A knee bobbing beneath a desk. Her fingers inch toward the flower-shaped pin above her heart before she forces them back into her lap, trying to exude a calm she doesn’t feel as the other writers study her. Their collective gaze, plucking at her pink edges, skating over her brown skin.
Kenzo meets her eyes and smiles, almost gently, as he says, “Romance.”
It’s not a question, but at least there’s no disdain in it either.
“That obvious?” she asks, trying to keep her voice light, even as she spots Malcolm’s brows go up, and Jaxon cocks his head, and she can practically hear the room of writers wondering whatsheis doinghere.
