Chapter 3 #2
‘Yes, that’s right.’ She nods, her smile widening even further.
‘It’s a tremendous honour for us here at Hedgerow Press to reimagine such beautiful work and keep Matilda Wilder happy, keep her vision alive.
We’re so privileged to be part of this mission of bringing these timeless tales to life again.
I gave you the nod for this job – picked your portfolio out of every new illustrator in the business – for our biggest project yet.
’ She shrugs, throwing her hands up in the air.
‘What can I say? I go with my gut… usually, I’m right. It’s got me where I am today.’
I feel a weight lifting from my chest and my breathing steady. I can feel the heat of hope rise through me; perhaps it’s going to be okay.
Lenka walks back to her chair, then leans forward on her elbows and takes off her glasses to study me closer. ‘As you know, to captivate a whole new generation of readers, we need illustrations that are fresh, vibrant and exciting.’
I feel a chill run down my spine.
Lenka fixes me with a steely gaze and says in an even tone, ‘Convince me how these dusty old tales are going to compete in this market – against video games and streaming services and endless options for entertainment.’
Uh-oh. Curveball. Rory didn’t equip me with any ‘Pitch for Your Life’ techniques.
‘If you are so confident that your ideas can change things – prove it.’
But we are Team Wilder. It’s now or never.
So carefully, and with confidence, I explain why the work should be taken seriously; why it could have a lasting impact on the industry; how it could revolutionise the way we think about classic storytelling.
My voice trails away as I finish, and the air feels heavy with anticipation.
Lenka is silent, her gaze intense and unyielding. The only sound in the room is the ticking of a clock.
‘You really believe this?’ she asks finally.
Her words hang in the air between us like a shimmering promise.
‘Yes,’ I reply without hesitation. ‘I believe that if we give people something new to think about, a different way of looking at things – then anything is possible.’
Lenka stares at me for a few moments before speaking. Her eyes pierce me, and my breath catches in my throat. I can feel the sweat forming on my palms as her lips part to speak. My heart thumps like a drum inside my chest, and I wait with bated breath for her words.
‘Fine. You want to resurrect the dead? You believe that you can pull off the impossible, make miracles? Do whatever you have to do, but don’t come back in here with anything less than mind-blowing brilliance.
We need to see your creativity unleashed.
Daisy, blow our freaking minds. I should be moved to tears – give me a spiritual experience of some kind; make me feel like I’ve left this world and entered Fable Forest heaven. Understood?’
‘Understood,’ I tell her as I gather my portfolio and stand from the mushroom stool, head held high.
Team Wilder lives to fight another day.
And who knows… I might meet this impossible brief and set the world alight in the process.
Or it’ll blow up in my face. And completely wreck my career, reputation and all my prospects.
An all-or-nothing-type situation.
Not my favourite type of situation, not by a long shot.
There’s a knock at the door, and Rory peeks his head around. ‘Lenka, your ride is here and your suitcase has already been loaded into the car. The driver said there’s a lot of traffic so we should get going ASAP.’
Lenka grabs her purse and claps her hands together. ‘Wonderful – never too early for Champagne en route to the Paris Book Fair.’
Rory glances over. ‘Sorry to rush off; you can see yourself out?’
I give him a quick nod and a thumbs up in acknowledgement. Lenka is already wearing her sunglasses and making her way out of the door, not even stopping for a goodbye. Oh well, I guess I can’t expect everything. She’s already moved on, so it’s time for me to do the same.
And then they’re gone.
And I know I should follow them straight out that door and join the rest of the workweek exodus. But there’s just this one thing I need to do before I go.
I approach Lenka’s bookshelf and take hold of the antique edition of Forest Fables with care, lightly running my fingers over its timeworn cover.
I take a deep breath and open it to the very first page.
The melody of my mother’s voice echoes in the rhythm of the lines, the music of the verse.
In my mind’s eye, I follow her gentle finger, tracing beneath the words on the creamy paper, voices that appear to drift in the air and characters that seem to move before my eyes.
The words on that page captivated me as a child, beckoning me to build a world all my own.
As I glide my finger across the aged page, my mind races with the possibilities.
I feel my heart quicken as I read the words, each syllable speaking to me like a lost friend.
The hum of the past seems to dance in the air around me, and I let out a shaky breath, remembering how this book saved me when my mother died and I was orphaned and placed in a children’s home.
It brought me comfort, love, security and hope.
Every word was an invitation to explore unknown places, forget what was too real and instead create a world of my own that was so much better than the one I lived in every day.
A world where good always overcame evil, where love conquered all and where anything was possible if you just believed.
That’s a cute idea, an uplifting notion, an existential life-hack, isn’t it?
Whether or not it’s true doesn’t matter; I want to believe it again.
I desperately need to believe it.
I flip through the pages with eagerness, my heart seesawing between hope and anxiety. Whatever awaits me, I have to take the chance. This may not be my fairy-tale ending, but for now, it’s enough to simply turn the page.