Chapter Six
“ALEXA?” CALLS JAXON.
Sienna feels herself let out a nervous laugh.
“Um,” says Cate, over the sound of a switch being frantically clicked back and forth. “I’m really not good with the dark.”
“I’m sure it’s just a fuse,” offers Malcolm. “Old houses and old power.”
“This is definitely the start of a horror novel,” says Jaxon.
“A lazy one,” offers Kenzo.
“Not helping,” hisses Priscilla.
“A good one would have started yesterday.”
Sienna finds herself still holding on to Malcolm, as if for balance, finding comfort in the shape of him, solid and warm and familiar in the dark. She hates her body for leaning into him, when her mind is still very, very mad. But she doesn’t let go.
Just then Millie yelps, and everyone jumps.
“Jesus, Mill,” says Jaxon, “it’s just me.”
“Why did you grab me?!”
“You’re standing in front of the drawers. I’m looking for a flashlight.” The rustle of wooden spoons and silverware. “Shit. No luck.”
“The fuse box is probably in the cellar,” says Malcolm. “Some of us should try to find torches, while the rest see if we can—”
“We are not splitting up,” snaps Priscilla, and honestly, Sienna agrees, even as she feels as much as hears one of them moving away.
Kenzo, she thinks, though she can’t tell.
It really is very dark. She blinks, trying to make her eyes adjust, but there’s no moonlight coming through the windows, and she can barely make out the outlines of the other people.
Her other senses sharpen, fighting to make up the difference.
Which is how she hears the front door groaning open. A comically loud noise, exactly like a sound effect in a shitty horror movie.
“Oh my god, oh my god,” shrieks Millie, and then everyone is moving, a tangle of limbs as they crash into each other, spilling into the hall, and Sienna thinks they’re all running away from the sound until she feels a body shove past her, toward the foyer and the front door.
It’s Jaxon, letting out an animal yell, pool cue raised like a sword as he plunges into battle. Sienna doesn’t have the chance to be impressed, because two things happen at once.
The lights come back on, and Sienna hears a collision, a loud thwack, and a strangled cry.
“Oh, shit,” says Jaxon, and by the time they get to the foyer, the pool cue is on the ground, and so is Fletch’s editor.
Rufus Beaumont sits on the foyer rug, dressed in a pair of silk pajamas and groaning in pain. A line of blood trickles down his temple.
Millie’s hands fly to her mouth.
“Oh, shit, man,” says Jaxon again, kneeling beside him.
“Is it bad?” asks Rufus, right before a fat red drop falls onto his silk pajamas.
“Head wounds do bleed quite a lot,” offers Cate.
Millie looks queasy.
“I’m really sorry, man,” says Jaxon. “Instinct took over. You know how it is.” He pats Rufus’s shoulder lightly, wincing as if he’s the one who caught a pool cue to the head, and Sienna can tell by the look on his face that he’s clearly more worried about how bludgeoning the editor will affect his chances than whether Rufus Beaumont is actually hurt.
“It was the generator,” says Kenzo, wiping his hands on his pants as he arrives.
“Must be using too much power . . .” He trails off, taking in the scene as Cate ducks past him, holding a kitchen towel, which Rufus gratefully accepts.
He pats at his head, flinching a little as he does, then, realizing he has an audience, puts on a brave face.
“Really, I’m all right. It’s my fault for coming in unannounced. ”
“What are you doing here?” asks Priscilla, sounding less worried than annoyed.
“The power went out,” he says, as if they didn’t notice.
“Old houses,” echoes Malcolm, shaking his head.
“This whole island runs on that generator,” says Kenzo. “I got it up and working again, but it’s holding on by a thread . . .” He trails off when it’s clear no one is listening. Their attention is squarely on Rufus.
“I just wanted to make sure you were all right,” Rufus says.
“How considerate,” says Priscilla. “Even if you scared the shit out of us.” She waves a hand. “But the power’s back on now . . .”
Sienna frowns, watching something pass between the two of them—not a spark but the opposite, a chill, which strikes her as odd, given that he’s the man deciding their future, their fate.
She thought Priscilla was just a stickler for the rules, but there’s clearly something else at play.
Then again, Priscilla is a Black romance author.
Maybe she simply knows how much the blind part of the judging matters.
Rufus nods. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I should be getting back. Behind the curtain, so to speak.” He gets to his feet, only to groan, and sway a little. Malcolm and Cate rush forward to steady him.
“Easy now,” says Malcolm. “You’d better stay here for a wee while. Let us keep an eye on you. Make sure there’s no lasting damage.”
“Yeah,” says Jaxon, a little too chipper. “I bet you could use a drink . . . I know I could.”
Priscilla stares, icy air rolling off her. Until she notices Sienna watching. Her mouth twitches, trying and failing to find a smile.
Rufus nods. “Well, I suppose one drink wouldn’t hurt.”
“Not as much as a pool cue to the head,” says Kenzo dryly. No one laughs. “What? Too soon?”
* * *
TEN MINUTES LATER, THEY’RE ALL BACK IN the games room.
The offending pool cue has been returned to the rack, and Rufus is sitting in the middle of the sofa, pressing an ice-cold bottle of vodka to the side of his head.
His outfit really is peculiar. Burgundy silk pajamas and a paisley smoking jacket, slippers muddy from the walk up from the cottage.
And even though he’s clearly in his thirties, Sienna can’t shake the image of a kid playing dress-up.
The others flit around him dotingly. Cate’s the one who fetched the cold bottle. Millie keeps asking Rufus if he’s warm enough. Even Kenzo—Kenzo, who was all about not pandering to the editor—asks Rufus if he wants something to eat. Sienna shakes her head. The ass-kissing could not be more overt.
“What’ll you have, sir?” asks Malcolm, rounding the bar. Rufus opens his mouth to speak, but Malcolm cuts him off. “Wait, let me guess. You strike me as a whisky man.”
The editor swallows and manages a wan smile.
“Guilty as charged,” he says as Malcolm strolls over, holding two glasses, each with no ice and what looks like a very generous pour.
He hands one to Rufus and clinks with the other, even though Sienna’s pretty sure that the last thing Malcolm needs is more Scotch.
The editor takes a sip and nearly chokes, grimacing visibly. “Oh, wow. That’s—smoky,” he coughs. Priscilla snorts, then plucks the vodka bottle from his hand and pours herself a drink. She lifts the bottle Sienna’s way in silent question, and she nods, abandoning the wine she was about to pour.
It’s been a weird night.
Millie and Cate perch on chairs, and Kenzo and Jaxon lean side by side against the pool table, nursing beers, the confrontation from the kitchen seemingly forgotten. Or at least, squashed in the editor’s presence, everyone suddenly on their best behavior.
The resulting atmosphere is . . . awkward.
“Can I just say again, that was totally my bad?” It’s the fifth time Jaxon has apologized to Rufus.
And like the last four times, the editor waves it away. “It’s my fault. I should have announced myself instead of just barging in.” He rubs at the bloodstain on the thigh of his pajama pants.
“So tell me, Rufus,” muses Malcolm, who’s already emptied his glass and is filling it again. “What do you think makes for a good relationship between an author and their editor?”
Sienna notices the pointed use of singular.
“That’s a very good question,” Rufus says, rolling the whisky between his hands.
“A very good question indeed. What I’d say is .
. .” He pauses, checking that he has everyone’s attention.
And of course he does. Everyone’s hanging off his every word—or pretending to, at least. “I always say that a good author/editor relationship is like a good marriage.”
“That is so interesting,” says Sienna. “I’ve never heard that before.” The sarcasm rolls off her tongue before she remembers she’s not talking to Malcolm, but thankfully, Rufus doesn’t seem to clock the tone. He looks around the room. “So, how are you all getting on?”
Priscilla clears her throat, and he flashes her a smile. “Not that I’m asking about the work, of course. I’m sure it’s going swimmingly.”
Kenzo stifles a short, sharp sound, halfway between a cough and a laugh, and at the same time Jaxon grins in a way that makes Sienna think, Oh no, right before he declares, “Penn Stonely broke up.”
If looks could kill, Jaxon would be a bloody carcass on the floor. Instead, Sienna and Malcolm can only glare. Rufus’s face is the picture of surprise.
“What? Really?”
And since there’s no point in hiding now, Sienna takes her shot, plunging into the fray.
“I know we were invited as a team,” she says, “but given the situation, I was hoping it would be okay if we each submitted a sample alone.”
Malcolm has the audacity to look betrayed, and Sienna summons the image of him hoarding the typewriter to steel herself.
But then he says, “Of course, we know the rules, so we understand if the only choice is to write together,” and any sympathy goes right out the window, and off the cliff, and drowns in the cold tide below.
The editor frowns. “Well, this is certainly a shock,” he says, looking down into his glass as if it holds the answer.
“It’s been a long time coming,” says Sienna, surprised by the sadness welling in her anger’s wake. She refuses to cry, not here, in front of the editor. But she’s not above letting the wetness show in her eyes as she says, “But I really want the chance to show you what I’ve got.”
“Cold,” Jaxon says in what he must think is a whisper, and is in fact loud enough for everyone to hear.
The editor hums to himself. “This poses an interesting dilemma,” he says. “I’m not sure Eleanor would approve of widening the pool. At the same time, this challenge is designed to find the best person for the job . . .”
He trails off, and the silence that follows is painful.
But then Priscilla intervenes.
“For what it’s worth,” she says, polishing her glasses, “I think they should be allowed to submit their own samples.”
Sienna shoots her a grateful look. But Millie glares, visibly annoyed. “But it’s not up to you.” Millie catches herself. “I mean, it’s not up to any of us. We can’t just go around changing the rules. That isn’t fair.”
“My point precisely,” adds Malcolm. Cate bobs her head in agreement.
Sienna tries not to feel wounded. But it’s hard, when even Kenzo avoids her gaze.
“You’re right,” says Priscilla pointedly. “It’s not up to us. It’s up to him.” She flicks a pink nail at Rufus. “Mr. Beaumont?”
Fletch’s editor seems to consider. Behind his glasses, his eyes slide from face to face. “I understand your points,” he says. “But I think I agree with Priscilla.”
Sienna’s heart surges in her chest, even as Malcolm throws up his hands. Millie sulks, and Jaxon groans. “Great,” he says, in a deadpan voice. “More competition.”
Millie says, “Yeah,” and Cate wilts a little, but Kenzo rallies, lifting an imaginary glass to Sienna in a toast. “May the best writer win.”
“We don’t have any extra typewriters,” continues Rufus, “so you’ll still have to share. But that seems like a pretty minor cost.”
Sienna thinks about the black one sitting abandoned on Fletch’s bedroom desk, but she can’t mention it, not without making herself look a trespasser and potential saboteur. There is, however, another solution. “Maybe I could use Millie’s,” she ventures. “Since she’s already turned in her ending.”
The YA author looks at her in abject horror, and it takes Sienna a moment to realize what she’s done. Priscilla closes her eyes and sighs.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” says Rufus with an indulgent smile.
“So much for blind judging,” Jaxon mutters into his beer.
Sienna flushes, but whatever guilt she feels is quickly subsumed by the reminder that she gets to write an ending. On her terms. In her words. For herself.
Malcolm looks like he wants to throw something, even if it’s just a fit. Instead, he fills his glass again, and all Sienna can think is, Go ahead and drink. It’s not my problem anymore.
“All right, then.” Rufus swings his hand down in an odd gesture, as if cleaving the space between Sienna and Malcolm. “And so,” he declares, “one becomes two.”
And just like that, Sienna’s mind kind of . . . snags.
It’s so silly, so small, but that’s the thing about inspiration.
People ask where it comes from, like there’s one reliable place, a depot where every author goes to find their ideas, but the truth is, they come from everywhere.
From the last line of a song you caught on the radio, or a snippet of conversation overheard on the subway.
From the way a poster peels away from an old brick wall, or the sound of a teacup crashing to the floor, or the scent of smoke on the air at night, or any one of the thousand little things that snag your senses and change the course of your thoughts.
It’s just the strange magic of ideas.
And Sienna will never know if it’s the way Rufus said the phrase, or the gesture he made, or if the thought was already there, perched at the edge of her mind, waiting to be tipped, but suddenly Sienna’s bringing her thumbnail to rest between her teeth, her thoughts whirring because she knows, she knows, she knows.
She knows exactly how to end Arthur Fletch’s final book.