Page 19 of River & Rue

“Is it real, Rue?”

“Is what real, Teddybear?”

“The magic in your stories.”

“Of course it’s real. But remember, the only way to keep magic alive is to believe in it. It’s up to us, okay?”

“Okay. I promise to always believe in magic. Do you promise too?”

“Yes, I promise.”

My heart gives a heavy thud.

“You arrived today, right?” asks Maya.

I’ve clearly reached my daily embarrassment quota—I can’t find it in me to care that she almost certainly knows the answer and is only asking because I looked like I was going to cry again.

“Yep, a few hours ago. Last one to arrive.” I kick a pebble off the path, frowning at the reminder. “Claudia told me some of the artists have been here for four days already. I wanted to ask her what the deal was during my tour but chickened out. Maybe I’ll ask at dinner.”

“Don’t bother. She’ll tell you our arrival order was based on our Zodiac signs and current planetary alignments.”

I groan, and she laughs.

“Kirk is the one to ask if you want straight answers. He told someone else the order was totally random. They staggered us three a day over four days because everyone coming at the same time is too much for Claudia.”

That makes me feel marginally better—until it occurs to me how whiny I must have sounded.

“I’m not complaining,” I say quickly. “I’m beyond grateful for this opportunity. I’m just… moderately overwhelmed. Which I’m sure you deduced from the whole lost right in front of giant signs thing.”

Maya hums in sympathy. “My first day was hard too, and anyone who says theirs wasn’t is a sociopath. This is the freaking Pacific Arts Collective—no-name artists come here and, within a year, they’re getting massive grants and shows. The pressure is immense.” She glances at me, a gleam in her eyes. “A part of me has been expecting a cult induction. Maybe they were waiting for everyone to be here, and tonight’s the night we sell our souls.”

A startled laugh leaves me. “Sounds like a great premise for a paranormal thriller.”

“Is that what you write? Thrillers?”

I shake my head, lowering my gaze to the path. “I write romantasy. Fantasy with a central romantic plot line.”

Maya stops in her tracks. “Seriously? I love romantasy!”

I will not cry.

I will not cry.

“You do?” I croak.

Her eyes widen, then narrow with a perceptiveness that makes me shift nervously. She waves an elegant finger toward my face.

“What am I looking at right now? Purity culture poisoning? Impostor syndrome?”

I flinch at the direct hit. “Impostor syndrome.”

“The adversary of every artist,” she murmurs before her gaze sharpens again. “I’m familiar with how loud and nasty that inner voice is, but you’re here, Rue. Do you know how many people apply for the residency slots each summer? Tens of thousands per slot. Probably even more for the writer’s residency since there’s only one. A panel of professional critics chose you, and they wouldn’t have unless you were extremely talented. So tell that bitch in your head to shut up.”

I’ve heard similar words of encouragement before. From Ivy, my agent, the few writer friends I’ve made, various college professors… But there’s a special kind of power in hearing them from a virtual stranger.

For the first time in weeks, the thought of writing doesn’t fill me with apprehension.

“Thanks, Maya.”