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Elsie stayed next to Mabel. “When you write a story do you do words or pictures first?”

“It varies. Usually I craft the story first. I think about the characters. Who they are. What they want. Once I have the story, I can decide how to illustrate it to fit what’s happening on the page.”

“But not all your stories rhyme.”

“No, they don’t. Only the ones for younger readers.” It all seemed so simple to the child turning the pages, but there was nothing simple about the business of publishing. Rhyme often meant translation challenges and fewer opportunities in foreign markets. You needed perfect scansion and a publisher who believed in the commercial appeal of the book.

But Elsie didn’t need to hear any of that. She was talking about the simple joy of writing a story.

For a moment, Mabel was transported back to those days so many decades ago when she’d received her third rejection from a publisher.

She and Walter had gone for a walk.

I will do it, she’d said. I will get there.

And instead of telling her to maybe think about giving up or pointing out the unfavourable odds of ever being published, he’d said, I know you will. You’re the most tenacious person I know. And you are exceptionally talented.

He’d believed in her even when she hadn’t always believed in herself.

She blinked. What would Walter have said if he were still here?

He would have been disappointed that she hadn’t written a word for eight years.

“I haven’t written since Walter died, but I hope I can remember how to do it.”

“I don’t mind if our book rhymes or not,” Elsie said. “But I’d like to write about Tripalot. Can we do that?”

Good question. Could she do that? Having a few lines about a duck in your head wasn’t the same as sitting down and writing a full story—beginning, middle and end. But it was a start. Could she take herself back to that time and write something new?

She was about to suggest that perhaps they focus on something different, but then she saw the hope in Elsie’s eyes. Hope was a fragile thing and who was she to shatter it?

If saying yes would make a child happy then she’d say yes.

“Yes. Good idea.”

Elsie bounced a little. “Shall we start right away? Poppy will take ages making pizza, and then Daddy will have to take another age clearing up after her, so we have time.”

Why not?

How could it possibly make things worse?

The damage was already done.

Mabel stood up and walked to her desk.

She stood for a moment with her fingers resting on the handle and then she took a deep breath and pulled open the drawer.

There it was, exactly as she’d left it so long ago. The blue sketchbook that Walter had always bought her from the small art supply store in town, along with her favourite pencil.

She lifted both out of the drawer and placed them carefully on the desk.

Elsie reached into the desk and pulled out a photograph. “Is this Walter?”

Mabel’s heart skittered. She’d forgotten she’d put it there. It had been hidden beneath the sketchbook for the past eight years.

“Yes.” Her throat felt thick. “Yes, that’s Walter.”

“He looks friendly. He has kind eyes. And who is this?” Elsie pointed. “She looks like you.”