Emma
By the time I got to Denise St Clair’s office lobby, Toronto had already started to change its colours for autumn, with red and gold trees lining the streets outside.
I had been here for just over a month. During that time, I had unpacked boxes, got lost in lecture halls, and watched students argue about Jane Austen with a lot more passion than I had expected.
And now I was here to face the other half of my life: the books.
Denise’s assistant walked me through the short corridor into an office that could only belong to an editor.
It was neat but lived-in; three walls were lined with organised shelves, brimming full of books.
A tall window looked out over the street and let in light that fell on a big oak desk worn smooth by years of use.
There was nothing on it except for a laptop, a stack of manuscripts, and a mug of black coffee.
We shook hands, and she pointed to the chair across from her. “It’s great to finally meet you in person. I’ve been looking forward to this.”
“Me too,” I said, settling in. The chair was upholstered in a soft grey fabric that reminded me of damp mornings in Edinburgh. “Even though it feels strange to start working with someone new after working with Jonathan for so long.”
Her smile changed into something that showed she understood. “He speaks very fondly of you. Said you’d be the best thing that ever happened to whoever took you on.”
That brought heat to my cheeks, and I tried to hide it by smoothing my skirt. “That’s kind of him.”
“He also told me you’d try something completely new and that it would be my job to make sure you didn’t drown in it.”
I laughed, because of course Jonathan had said that. “I do have the itch. Every time I finish a book, I want to go in a completely different direction.”
“And you’ve pulled it off,” Denise said, folding her hands on the desk.
“Your debut didn’t just do well – it startled people.
But the Edinburgh series – that was what really put you on the map.
The way you made the city feel like a character, along with the atmosphere and intimacy, were all amazing.
Not just the sales, Emma. The prizes. Quite something for someone who’s only twenty-seven. ”
I ducked my head, embarrassed. “I’ve been lucky.”
“Luck and talent,” she corrected. “Not many people have both. Which brings us to now. Tell me what’s next.”
I hesitated. That was the question, right?
There were a lot of half-finished drafts and random lines in my notebook, but nothing had turned into the one thing that was worth committing a year of my life to.
“I want to try something different,” I said.
“Maybe a new genre. I don’t know yet. But I do want Canada to be a part of it in some way.
Maybe, Toronto. Something that catches the feel of this place. ”
Denise nodded, calm and steady. “Good. That’s where we start. You don’t have to know everything yet; that’s what the work is for. My job is simple: I listen, I challenge, and I protect your voice. I’ll push you when you need it, but I won’t stop you from writing the book you want to write.”
Her certainty made my chest feel less tight. I could breathe again after Jonathan’s retirement. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
“Now,” she said, leaning back in her chair, “tell me about Toronto through your eyes. You’ve been here for over a month. What have you seen?”
So I told her about the students scribbling down every word in their notebooks; about Simon, who’d already become a friend; about the way Bloor Street glowed after dark; about floating maple leaves in Queen’s Park. And Denise listened like every detail mattered and maybe, in a way, it did.
By the time I left her office, the nerves had eased a bit, but the doubt hadn’t. I didn’t have the book yet. I barely even had an idea. Just permission to keep trying and getting it wrong.
Sometimes, that was a gift. Sometimes, it was terrifying.
* * *
The day outside was too bright, the cold too sharp.
I didn’t want to go home to my half-empty house and the blank document waiting on my laptop, so I ducked into a bookshop I’d passed by a few times.
There were rows and rows of books, each one humming with the promise of another world.
I drifted through the aisles, running my fingers over the spines and pulling one out every now and then to look at the cover.
I stopped to read the back of a novel I’d never heard of before.
That’s when I heard it: a low and heavy sigh from the next aisle.
I leaned over a little to look through the gap between the shelves.
I could only see the back of a man. He had broad shoulders under a grey jacket and messy dark brown hair that looked like he had raked a hand through it too many times.
He stood very still, scanning the shelves, then muttered, low and frustrated, just loud enough for me to hear.
“Shit.”
Then a pause.
“Maybe unicorns…? No idea.”
I froze because I was overhearing something that wasn’t meant for me. But it wasn’t just the words – it was the voice itself. It was rough and warm, like gravel softened under water. That sigh had weight in it, too. He obviously needed help.
I put the book back where it belonged and stepped around the corner, asking him with a hint of humour in my voice, “You’re sighing pretty loudly over here. Need any help?”