I hadn’t felt this—the sparkling sense of inspiration—for a long time. The energy felt volatile, almost sexual. It filled every cell, making them glow in the dark. It had been hard to get to sleep after that. I’d kept a notebook on the nightstand and kept reaching over to turn on the light, half sitting up so I could jot down a new idea.
The conversation with Roza had been like a spell, psychically connecting me with Daphne. Or, more accurately: her loneliness, her difficulties, her fears. The one connection Daphne had relied on—Grace—had been ripped away from her. That loss had later caused her to wade into ghostly realms, even though she knew how terrifying they could be.
So: the muse had landed on me, stung me like a bee. After writing and brainstorming most of the night, I now felt exhausted.
But I also felt fucking great.
“This is the problem with a lot of writers today.” Roza sat back in her chair. She was wearing the same outfit as the day before, as if she’d been too lazy to change. “They want to ease you into it. But it’s boring. Why do I care? This girl, she seems like kind of a sap, to be honest. She was just dumped by her boyfriend, and she’s depressed, sitting in the airport, waiting for her flight. I don’t care about someone who’s depressed. I care about someone who wants something. What does she want?”
Wren cleared her throat, considering.
“See?” Roza whipped off her glasses and pointed at her. “That’s the problem, dear. That has to be utterly foremost in your mind. If you don’t know—”
“I do know.” Wren frowned. “She wants to be successful. In her career and in her love life.”
“Successful.” Roza raised her hands. “What does that mean? Does she want to be famous?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Wren looked exasperated. “She’s an actress. That’s her passion.”
Roza squeezed her eyes shut. The rest of us sat silent and tense. Poppy’s arms were crossed and she stared down at her lap as if wishing she were anywhere else. Taylor’s eyes were wide, as if the interaction between Wren and Roza were a particularly intense tennis match. Keira watched Roza, her expression guarded. I wondered what she was thinking.
As for me, I did feel for Wren, now the subject of Roza’s prickliness. I knew how awful and destabilizing it was.
At the same time, I couldn’t help but feel a burst of glee.
Wren was always so confident in her perfection. Seeing her questioned and criticized—by Roza, no less—was like watching a powerful dictator get taken to task.
“So here is my question.” Roza leaned forward. “Why is acting her passion? Does she need other people to tell her how wonderful she is? Does she feel empty inside? Or is she an artist? Does she want to bring beauty to an ugly world? Is she willing to sacrifice herself for it?”
Wren opened her mouth and Roza held up a finger.
“Don’t answer.” Roza’s voice softened. “Think about it. Think hard. Because it can only be one thing. And it needs to drive every single act of the protagonist for the rest of the book. To the point where it harms them. Where they find themselves making outrageous choices. Okay?”
Wren nodded.
“Alex.” Roza whirled over to me. She held up a sheath of papers. “Why don’t you walk us through your beginning.”
I was the last in the group to go, and I briefly explained the first few scenes. The writing energy hummed through me. Even if Roza told me everything was shit, I wouldn’t care. I was untouchable.
“Beautiful work, darling.” Roza began gathering her papers. “Sets just the right tone. I love this decaying woman popping up at night. I know that feeling. Don’t we all?”
I laughed, accidentally making eye contact with Wren. She was glaring at me. She looked away quickly, but I felt the sting, as if she’d launched a tiny grenade into my lap.
Roza dismissed us, leaving quickly as if she had somewhere important to be.
And she did. She, too, was working on a new book. I wondered if we’d get to hear about it at some point. Taylor had asked for details, but she’d remained coy.
Taylor and Keira chatted at the table while Poppy raced back up to her room to prepare before her first solo meeting with Roza. I caught up with Wren at the doorway.
“Hey.” I touched her arm and she jumped. “Can we talk for a minute?”
She gazed at me. There it was: that vague disgust I remembered so well. But this time I had Big Writing Energy, and it shielded me and kept me calm.
My admission to Roza the night before had changed something. It was true that I hadn’t shoved Wren backwards with both hands. But there had been some intention behind my touch. A part of me wanted to hurt her, punish her, make her suffer.
Thus, I could no longer continue to see myself as the victim. And this realization actually offered me a chance for redemption. This was my opportunity to be the bigger person. To make things bearable, if not right, between us so that we could both get through this month and focus on what was really important. That hateful look she’d given me was a clear sign that we were currently far from that place.
But Wren remained silent, pausing so long that I wondered if she’d say no.
“Sure,” she said finally. “The parlor?”
“Sounds good.” I hadn’t yet been in the parlor, but Wren led us there assuredly. It was on the same side of the building, though closer to the front hall. The room was decorated in deep forest greens, and the heads of various animals dotted the walls. I recalled a black-and-white photograph in one of the books. This room had originally been decorated by Horace, an avid hunter. It smelled slightly musty and meaty, like old jerky. I wondered if these were the same animals Horace had killed or if Roza had bought all new ones.
“Wow.” I stopped beneath the giant, shaggy face of a buffalo. “Creepy.”
“Right?” Wren went towards the empty stone fireplace and settled into a leather chair. She was wearing more designer loungewear today, a sportier look in purple, and she played with the string on her hoodie.
At least today I’d made more of an effort with my appearance, putting on lipstick and a necklace and wearing a loose denim shirt. It gave me a bit more confidence. But the shirt was thin and it was colder in there than the library; I shivered as I dropped into a chair across from her.
“So.” She said the word with faux brightness. “What did you want to talk about?”
It struck me suddenly that this was actually a horrible time for this conversation. She’d just been criticized by Roza in front of all of us. I felt a flicker of fear.
“Well—” I started but she cut me off.
“Because I have something I wanted to talk about too.” She let go of the cord and started twisting her diamond ring instead. Almost like she wanted me to notice it.
“Okay. Totally. Did you want to go first?” I still felt hopeful. We weren’t back in Brooklyn; we were here in Roza’s castle. We could get past things. We could be adults.
“Okay. Totally.” She was mocking me.
My stomach dropped. This was the worst of all of Wren’s moods: when she acted like a thirteen-year-old mean girl.
“Look, I know you’ve been talking shit about me to the other girls”—she brushed back her bangs and crossed one long leg over the other—“and I’m pretty sure you’ve told Roza too. And I’d really appreciate it if you’d keep your paranoid conspiracy theories to yourself.”