Chapter 12
Twelve
The dragon had eyes now.
Livvie stepped back from the wall, brush in hand, and something shifted in her chest. Yesterday he’d been a shape—violet curves and suggested scales, potential waiting to be realized.
But this morning, with the knowing tilt of his head and the gold of his iris catching the light, he seemed almost alive. Watching her.
She’d forgotten she could do this.
Somewhere in the years of manuscript reports and submission guidelines and being told she wasn’t aggressive enough, she’d lost this part of herself. The part that made things. The part that brought color out of nothing and watched it breathe.
Now she had violet paint under her fingernails and a dragon on the library wall and a life in Maple Lake that felt more real than anything she’d left behind in New York.
She dipped her brush into the pale blue she’d mixed that morning—the exact shade of a robin’s egg—and turned to the corner where a baby dragon was emerging from its egg.
The shell was cracked now, one tiny claw reaching through, and she’d spent an hour yesterday getting the texture right.
Today she’d add the eye. Just one, peeking out. Curious. New.
Emma would have loved it.
The thought came unbidden but had turned from sharp to simply a companion, even a warmth.
As if she might be watching too.
“It’s magical.”
Livvie turned. Hazel stood in the doorway, hand pressed to her chest, those bright eyes suspiciously wet.
“I’m still working on the baby,” Livvie said. “And the window seat needs the castle mural, and—”
“Livvie.” Hazel’s voice was soft. “Stop. Just…look at what you’ve made.”
She stepped back and looked.
The Storybook Corner wasn’t just a children’s reading area anymore. It was a world. A place where stories could happen. Where a child could curl up in the window seat and believe that dragons could be real and forests held secrets and that somewhere, just out of sight, magic waited.
“Four days until the festival,” Hazel said. “Do you think you’ll have it done?”
“I’ll have it done.”
“The dedication ceremony is on closing night. The lantern release.” Hazel paused. “We’d love for Nate to be there. If he’s…if he’s ready.”
Livvie thought about Nate at his desk, the words finally flowing. Thought about the way he’d smiled at her yesterday, brief and real, before disappearing back into his story.
“I’ll ask him,” she said.
Her phone buzzed on the drop cloth. She glanced down and saw Meg’s face filling the screen—video call incoming.
“I should take this,” she said to Hazel. “My friend from New York.”
“Of course.” Hazel was already backing away, that knowing look on her face. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Livvie wiped her hands on her jeans and grabbed the phone, settling into the window seat that overlooked the lake. She answered on the fourth ring.
“Finally!” Meg’s face appeared, slightly pixelated, with the chaos of a Manhattan coffee shop visible behind her. Someone jostled her elbow. A barista called out a complicated order. “I’ve been trying to reach you for two days. Where have you been?”
“Here.” Livvie held up the phone, panning it across the mural. “Working.”
“Is that a dragon?”
“It’s a children’s reading corner. At the library.”
“You’re painting dragons at a library?” Meg’s eyes widened. “Livvie. What is happening to you out there?”
“I’m helping with a project. Emma—Nate’s sister—she designed this space for the kids. It was never finished. I’m just…” She trailed off. “I’m finishing it.”
“Uh-huh.” Meg took a sip of her coffee, that look on her face—the one that meant she was filing information away for later interrogation. “And how’s Mr. Hot Author? Still grumpy?”
“He’s writing.”
“That’s it? He’s writing?”
“He’s writing really well, actually. I think he hit twenty-five thousand words into his story yesterday.
And he’s been steady since then. Chapter seven yesterday.
” Livvie couldn’t keep the pride out of her voice.
“He’s going to finish. I really think he’s going to finish.
Maybe not by the deadline, but he’ll finish. ”
Meg said nothing, the hum of the coffee shop behind her. The contrast hit Livvie like a wave—all that noise, all that chaos, while she sat in this quiet corner with lake light streaming through the windows.
“You sound different,” Meg said finally.
“Different how?”
“I don’t know. Lighter. Happier.” A pause. “Livvie. Is something going on with this guy?”
“What? No.” Oops. The denial came too fast. She heard it. Meg definitely heard it, given the arch of her brow. “It’s professional. He’s a client. I’m just here to help him finish his book.”
“And the library? What’s that about?”
Livvie looked out the window. The lake glittered in the morning sun, and somewhere across the water, Nate was at his desk, building worlds out of words.
“Emma was my friend too,” she said quietly. “And in a way, this is me…saying goodbye. Maybe healing. And I think…I think I’m actually helping him too. For once in my life, I feel like I’m making a difference that matters.”
Meg’s expression softened. “Liv. You always make a difference. You’re just usually too busy letting other people take the credit to notice.”
“That’s not—”
“It is. It absolutely is.” Meg leaned closer to the camera. “But listen to me. Be careful, okay? I know you. You care too much. You give too much. And if this guy breaks your heart—”
“He’s not going to break my heart. It’s not like that.”
“Okay.” Meg didn’t look convinced. “Just…remember you have a life here too. A job. Friends who miss you. Richard asked about you, by the way. He’s not happy.”
The mention of Richard sent a cold finger down her spine. “What did he say?”
“Just asking where you are, when you’re coming back. You know how he gets.” Meg glanced at something off-screen. “Listen, I have to go—meeting in ten. But call me, okay? Don’t disappear into dragon-painting land and forget about us mere mortals.”
“I won’t.”
“And Livvie?” Meg’s face was serious now. “Whatever’s happening out there—you deserve it. You deserve to be happy.”
The call ended before Livvie could respond.
She sat for a moment, phone in her lap, looking at the mural. The dragon watched her back, patient and knowing.
It’s not like that, she’d said.
But it was starting to feel like something, wasn’t it?
She cleaned her brushes and packed up her supplies, leaving the paints for tomorrow. Four days until the festival. Four days to finish the baby dragon, the window seat castle, the final touches that would make this space complete.
A week until she had to figure out what came next.
Outside, the September sun warmed her face, the air carrying a crispness that meant fall was truly arriving. She walked toward Main Street, past the festival banners—MAPLE LAKE FLANNEL FESTIVAL – 4 DAYS!—and the General Store with its window display of plaid everything.
Her phone buzzed with an email notification.
She almost ignored it. Almost kept walking. But something made her glance down, and the subject line stopped her in her tracks.
RE: Your notes on my manuscript
The young writer. The one whose manuscript Richard had rejected, the one she’d responded to with her own notes attached. She’d almost forgotten.
She opened the email standing on the sidewalk, people moving around her, the smell of maple and cinnamon drifting from somewhere nearby.
Dear Ms. Fox,
I can’t tell you what your notes meant to me. I’ve been trying to write this book for three years, and everyone keeps telling me it’s not commercial enough, not high-concept enough, not SOMETHING enough. But your notes—they made me feel seen. Like you actually understood what I was trying to say.
With your suggestions, I really think I could finish this. You helped me see what the story was actually about.
I know this is probably inappropriate to ask, but—are you an agent? Would you consider representing me? I feel like you GET my work in a way no one else has.
Either way, thank you. You’ve given me hope when I was ready to give up.
Sincerely, Nora Whitcomb
Livvie read it twice, and warmth bloomed in her chest.
Except right after it, a cold brick of dread. This girl thought Livvie was someone. Someone with the power to help her, to champion her work, to make things happen.
She wasn’t. She was a junior agent who couldn’t even get her own boss to read her recommendations. She was nobody.
But maybe she could still help.
She typed a response right there on the sidewalk.
Dear Nora,
I’m so glad the notes were helpful. Your writing has real heart—don’t let anyone tell you that’s not enough.
I’m not an agent (not yet, anyway). I’m an editorial assistant. But here’s what I’d suggest: Focus on strengthening the middle section where Cara’s motivation gets muddy. Think about her wound—what happened to make her afraid of connection? Once that’s clear, the ending will land harder.
Also, consider your platform. Publishers want to know you can reach readers. Do you have a social media presence? A newsletter? A community that cares about your story?
If you revise based on these suggestions, send it back to me. I’ll give it another look and see if there’s anyone at the agency who might be a good fit.
Don’t give up. The right story finds its way.
Best, Livvie
She hit Send before she could second-guess herself.
It probably wasn’t smart. Richard would be furious if he found out she was corresponding with a writer he’d rejected.
But he had told her that he expected her to find the gems, right?
And the girl had sounded so much like Livvie had felt at twenty-three—hopeful and terrified and desperate for someone to believe in her.
Livvie pocketed her phone and continued down the street toward Maple Sweets.