“Then stop bothering with me.” Hattie shooed her toward the door. “Go write it down.”
“But breakfast—”
“Go!”
Olivia kissed her aunt’s cheek and hurried up the stairs to her writing tower. As she pulled back her chair, morning light trickled through the curl of windows, pooling on her desk. Then she kissed her fingertips and touched the glass paperweight that Graham had commissioned, a handblown sphere with a blue water lily floating inside.
Anticipation surged through her as she rolled fresh paper into the typewriter. Halfway home from Winfield an entire chapter, set in the past century, stacked itself neatly in her mind. She scribbled down notes on the train, and if her fingers would accommodate her now, she would write the chapter.
Her gaze wandered out one of the dozen windows, toward the trees that hid the Ashe family cemetery as she tried to picture the first scene. She remembered the rustle of leaves in the forest, the shadow. Instead of creating fictional children, she’d make her imagination work for her.
A woman emerged from the shadows in her mind. Her heroine. Nineteen years old. Before leaving home, the woman would visit her parents one last time at their family plot. Even though her uncle wasn’t fond of her, readers would know she had once been well loved and that she had a heart to love others. Readers would want good things for her. Like the Little Ash Girl—Cinderella—from the Brothers Grimm.
If only she had a name.
Olivia closed her eyes and listened for a word, a hint, from the great Storyteller.
Verity.
The state of being real or true. That was her heroine.
Verity Chessington.
The name came quickly, resolutely, like there was no other choice. And along with it, a glimpse of her face.
Now she had only to pry the rest of Verity’s story out of her head.
In days gone by, when Graham was still alive and words poured like rain, her characters had refused to leave her be. They poked at her day and night to tell their side of a story. Sometimes they were pleasant enough, but often they simply weren’t nice. They’d interrupt her sleep with incessant chatter, and when her bedside tablet couldn’t contain it all, she’d wrap herself in a robe and rush into her writing space to transcribe their words.
The many interruptions inspired Graham to build an office directly above their bedroom in the form of a turret. A narrow staircase near the closet connected the two rooms so she was prepared when a scene demanded to be told during the night hours. While Graham slept, she’d slip upstairs, turn on her desk lamp, and click away.
Glorious, all of it.
Her gaze circled the room, remembering those days when she would fall asleep on the sofa near her desk, too tired to traverse the staircase. Graham would wake her at dawn and escort her down to their bed.
A case underneath the windows overflowed with books, and near her desk were cubbies built between the panels, each one carefully labeled so she could organize the comings and goings of her business and reader mail. Beside the fireplace, a sliding panel—Graham’s invention—concealed a narrow hiding place for her latest manuscript, as if someone might break in and steal her work.
She rarely used it, but it was a sweet reminder of his love.
With the addition of a small bathroom, two matching chairs beside the sofa, and her aunt delivering regular meals, she only needed to leave the turret for her evening walk and to attend services at the church where Graham once ministered.
Her hands twitched like racehorses waiting for the gate to clang open as she advanced the piece of paper. Noiseless typewriters were all the rage now, but the Royal KHM was the perfect—albeit loud—partner for her musings. Sturdy. Dependable. More friend than foe.
She eyed the bare space on the desk where she typically stacked her pages. And she was ready to fill it again. One word at a time. Mortared together like bricks as she laid her foundation.
The clicking began.
At some point that morning, Hattie brought her a pot of tea, and Olivia sipped cup after lukewarm cup, lost in her work until another tray appeared by her desk. An early dinner of Hattie’s pot roast.
Olivia loved the clicks and clacks of her Royal KHM, the rhythm of a story unfolding, the clang of every return. A crescendo, she thought, as she neared the end of each page. Then a quick roll of the platen as she yanked free another finished page.
The pile grew slowly as Verity’s uncle insisted she leave her family’s grand home in New York and travel west. In a flurry of typing, Olivia envisioned the young women yesterday at Winfield. How would they feel if they were sent alone to visit a distant cousin they’d never met?
Several men approached Verity on the train, intimidating her with their stares. She had never traveled without a chaperone and didn’t know how to stop them until a handsome man, a railroad employee she assumed, offered to accompany the troublemakers back to their seats. Not until much later in the story would she discover the men weren’t actually strangers. They were enemies of Verity’s uncle. Wicked men who thought he would pay a sizeable ransom for her return.
Until then, Verity didn’t realize that some people would do anything for money.
The story unfolded rapidly after the train, and Olivia knew, without stopping, each beat that followed in her rhythm. She pecked at the keys, lost in her story world, until a lamp flickered on near the staircase. In that instant, she fell off the fictional train, right back into her office.
