2005

MAPLE GOLD COFFEE COMMERCIAL SCRIPT

VOICEOVER: ‘Maple Gold is here for endings and new beginnings . . .’

The scene opens with a young woman, Greta, standing on the pavement, waving as a car pulls away. She’s holding a small cardboard box.

GRETA (WHISPERING): ‘Bye Mum.’

She turns to face a pretty white house, straightens her back and smiles bravely. She’s ready to enter a new phase of her life—moving into her first home.

The front door is ajar, and she enters a hallway, then a sitting room. We can see there are more, bigger boxes sitting around the place, sealed and ready to unpack.

VOICEOVER: ‘It’s here for the good times and the even better ones . . .’

Greta looks apprehensive but takes a moment to take in her new surroundings. She switches on the kettle and opens a cupboard, disappointed to find it empty.

She spies her name written on the side of the box she carried in and opens it. Inside is her old teddy bear and a jar of Maple Gold coffee, a gift from her mum. Greta takes the jar out, becoming misty-eyed as she makes herself a cup of coffee. Wrapping her fingers around the cup helps her to feel more at home.

The doorbell rings, and she opens the door to find a group of her new neighbors gathered outside. They present Greta with flowers and another jar of coffee as a welcome present. It’s Maple Gold, of course.

They all laugh, and she invites them inside for coffee.

A CAPPELLA GROUP (SINGING): ‘You’re always at home with Maple Gold.’

Chapter  1

Present Day

GRETA PERKS LOVED three things in life more than anything—her family, the thrill of performing, and a fine cup of coffee. When she could combine all three, it was as satisfying as a frothy cappuccino on a cold day. But recently, a happy home life and sparkling career seemed to be slipping through her fingers.

‘I wish you could stay longer,’ she said, glancing between her husband, Jim, and their daughter, Lottie, as coffee cups clattered in the background. ‘Tonight’s important to me.’

She’d volunteered to be the guest speaker at Brewtique’s monthly Coffee Lover’s Night Out, talking about her acting career. It had been a while since she’d last performed in public, and her nerves were jumping around like frogs in a pond.

Jim offered her a smile. ‘I wish we could, too. But I promised Lottie I’d get her back to school.’ He passed Greta a shopping bag like it was a peace offering. ‘Just brought a few things you might need . . .’

‘Talent show rehearsal,’ Lottie muttered, not looking up from her phone. ‘Total waste of time.’

Greta and Jim shared a glance, a silent understanding of the challenges of raising a fifteen-year-old together while living apart.

 ‘A talent show? Sounds fun.’ Greta gave Lottie’s arm a quick reassuring rub. ‘What are you doing? A show tune, or a monologue? Perhaps even a Shakespeare sonnet?’

Lottie shrugged a disinterested shoulder.

Greta’s spirits dipped a little. ‘Well, whatever you do, I bet you’ll be great,’ she said.

‘We’ll grab a burger afterward, then I’ll drop her back at your place.’ Jim opened his mouth slightly, as if wanting to say something more. ‘Stay safe returning to your car tonight, okay?’

Greta nodded, hoping for a word of encouragement, perhaps a ‘good luck,’ ‘break a leg,’ or even a quick hug. But Lottie was already heading toward the door.

Jim’s fingers lightly brushed Greta’s arm, but didn’t linger.

Then he turned and followed their daughter outside.

Through the window, Greta watched as her family dashed across the road without her. She smiled brightly and waved, even though her stomach was twisting.

‘Drop her back at your place.’ The words stung like a paper cut. 

She and Jim were over four months into a trial separation, with just a few weeks left until their self-imposed New Year’s Eve deadline. At that point they’d agreed to make a final call on the future of their marriage.

It didn’t seem as clear-cut as Greta had hoped. What had once felt like a simple decision—to try to rebuild their marriage or let it go—now felt tangled with uncertainty. After almost twenty years together, was she still in love with Jim? Was he still in love with her?

Greta peeked inside the bag, her mood lifting when she saw Jim had brought her herbal throat lozenges, a new notebook, and a spare pen.

Outside, the wet, grey pavement was the same color as the inky November sky, and she suddenly craved a rich mocha.

 Greta turned to face the room. In half an hour, the place would hopefully be buzzing with people. She was determined to deliver an entertaining talk, even if it wasn’t exactly her kind of coffee shop.

She preferred cozy spaces where she could curl up with a good book, sipping coffee from mugs the size of plant pots. The type of place that served homemade rocky road and had a corner dedicated to board games.

Brewtique, on the other hand, had industrial-style light- bulbs and blackboards showcasing quirky concoctions, such as rhubarb and custard lattes. A pink neon coffee cup on the wall cast an eerie pink glow on her face. The spindly branches of a Christmas tree on the counter looked like they’d been pecked by crows.

Her long-time agent, Nora, had applauded Greta for spotting Brewtique’s Facebook post asking for local speakers. ‘Putting yourself forward shows brilliant initiative, darling. Well-done,’ Nora had gushed. ‘You never know who might be in the audience. Any exposure could help give your career a little boost. Plus, it’s a great way to plug your acting classes.’ 

A boost? Greta knew her career needed a defibrillator. If one human year equals seven dog years, the same rule definitely applied to actors out of the spotlight. She felt like her career had been on pause for too long, and she was ready to hit Play again.

Greta missed the camaraderie on set, filming the iconic Maple Gold coffee commercials she’d starred in with Jim and Lot- tie a decade ago. Nothing compared to the soar of her senses when the director called, ‘Action,’ and everything clicked into place. She longed to find that spark again, not just for herself, but in the hope of pulling her family back together again.

If Greta was honest, she also missed the attention. Champagne on ice in a silver bucket, fans queuing around the block for her autograph, and the occasional limousine whisking her to grand events had been cherries on top of the cake. Those memories felt almost unreal now, as if they belonged to someone else.

The students she’d coached since then seemed to enjoy her acting classes, but it wasn’t the same. Guiding nervous amateurs through voice projection techniques or stage presence didn’t give her the same buzz as stepping in front of a camera or an audience. Hopefully, tonight would rekindle some of that feeling, proof she still had something to offer.

The sound of dropped cutlery pulled her out of her thoughts. Greta turned to see Brewtique’s owner, Josie, rushing around, a dusting of flour in her hair. Meanwhile, her young pink-haired assistant, Maisie, dawdled in a corner, glued to her phone.

‘Need a hand with anything?’ Greta called out.

‘Oh gosh, no.’ Josie shook her head frantically. ‘You’re the talent. I’m just running a bit late with everything . . .’

‘Are you sure? I’ve already prepped for my talk.’

Josie bit her lip, tempted. ‘Well . . . setting up the refreshment table would be helpful, while I get changed. I’ve just popped fresh brownies in the oven. Maisie knows to keep an eye on them.’ She gave Greta a pointed look. ‘She’s new here.’

‘Sure,’ Greta said, catching her drift. ‘Leave it to me.’

Greta set out coffee cups with vigor, arranged cookies on plates, and laid out napkins. Her pulse quickened when she saw the time. ‘Maisie!’ she called out. ‘We need to hurry. There’s only fifteen minutes left until showtime.’

The young woman barely raised her eyes. ‘Didn’t your family once star in some coffee ads or something?’ she asked. ‘One day, I’ll get discovered like that. Want to see my latest TikTok audition?’ She held out her phone.

‘Yes, we starred in them.’ Greta briskly polished a spoon on her apron. ‘I’ll look at your clip later. Now, please check all  the glasses. Some of these are scratched, and Josie said you’re in charge of the brownies…’

When Josie reappeared wearing fresh clothes, she glanced out of the window and sighed. ‘Looks like we’ve got a smaller crowd than usual.’

‘How many are you expecting?’ Greta asked, joining her. ‘Six or seven. I’ve just checked my messages and had quite a few cancellations. Christmas is coming, and it’s the Strictly Salsa final on TV tonight.’

Greta chewed her lip. Disappointment was part of an actor’s life—the rejections, the scathing reviews, and the occasional inappropriate behavior from a director she’d once respected. She hadn’t expected a theatre-sized crowd, but six?

‘An intimate gathering,’ she said with a nod. ‘I’ll make it work.’

Josie welcomed the guests inside. When they were settled down around tables with coffee and cake, she launched into her introduction.

‘Welcome to the monthly Brewtique Coffee Lover’s Night Out. We’ve been fortunate to hear some incredible stories from our speakers this year—conquering Mount Everest, training guide dogs for the blind, and a brain surgeon who worked in war-torn countries. And tonight we’ve got the former star of the Maple Gold coffee commercials. Let’s bid a warm welcome to our special guest, Greta Perks.’

No pressure, Greta thought, smiling brightly as she stepped forward.

‘G . . . good evening, everyone,’ she started, feeling woefully out of practice. ‘Thanks for coming.

‘I’m going to tell you a story about how I became the face of the Maple Gold coffee commercials. Yes, for ten years, I was the lady who made you believe coffee could make your life perfect.’

 A few chuckles rang out, and Greta soon found her flow. She paced up and down, commanding the little coffee shop as if starring in a West End theatre production.

‘Did you know that Maple Gold was born in 1950, as a humble roastery in the back streets of London? Over the years, it became a household name, beloved for its delicious blends and vintage appeal.’ She leaned in, as if sharing a secret. ‘And who wouldn’t want to live in Mapleville, the idyllic town from the commercials? The sun always shone, the grass was emerald green, and the whole town thrived on cups of Maple Gold.’

She took out her phone and played the jingle.

When you wake at sunrise, 

and open your eyes.

You’re ready to start your day, the Maple Gold way.

You’re always at home with Maple Gold.

From the faraway looks on a few faces, it seemed like nostalgia was working.

‘I locked eyes with my love interest, Jim, when he painted my garden fence in the commercial, and things went a bit further off-camera,’ Greta said with a wink. ‘We got married and then had Lottie, our own little star. We were such a happy family, on-screen and off . . .’

She paused as a twinge of sadness crept in, like how bitter- ness stays on the tongue after an espresso. A screech of metal chair legs against wooden floorboards made her flinch.

A woman in the audience called out, uninvited. ‘Are you guys still working?’

Greta blinked, the question taking her by surprise. ‘Yes, everything’s going wonderfully,’ she said, feeling guilty at embellishing the truth. ‘Jim’s still gracing the stage and screen,

 Lottie’s currently rehearsing for a school Christmas talent show, and as for me . . . well . . . I run some excellent acting classes, if anyone is interested?’

A few seconds of silence followed before more questions flew at her like arrows.

‘How’s Lottie?’ 

‘Where’s Jim?’

‘How do you feel about Maple Gold replacing you with a different family?’

‘Does Lottie resent you putting her on-screen at such a young age?’

‘Those are some great, um, deep questions,’ Greta said with a swallow. She grabbed her notes, hurriedly trying to recover her thread. ‘I think my talk will cover most of them . . . Now, where was I?’

Then, suddenly, the shrill scream of the smoke alarm pierced the moment. Greta jumped and spun around to see smoke billowing from the oven.

Josie shouted out over the bleeping alarm. ‘Maisie. Did you forget about the brownies?’

Maisie’s head snapped up, her eyes widening when she noticed the grey clouds. ‘Oops.’

A flurry of activity broke out.

Maisie darted behind the counter and yanked open the oven door, waving her arms as the grey smoke curled out. ‘It’s fine. Totally under control.’

Josie grabbed her oven gloves and pulled out the tray. The burnt brownies looked like steaming lumps of coal, and she tossed them into the sink.

Greta rushed over to help, spinning on the tap so the brownies spat and sizzled. She threw open the front door to let in some fresh air, then grabbed a tea towel and wafted it in front of the smoke alarm until it stopped. ‘Is everyone okay?’ she called out.

 An elderly couple had already put on their coats and scuttled outside. The remaining four guests had drifted toward the buffet table, their focus now on cake rather than conversation. Greta followed them, trying to salvage what was left of the evening.

One man wrapped cake into a napkin and slipped it into his pocket. A couple of women wearing matching blue anoraks conversed loudly.

‘I didn’t recognize Greta at first, did you? She’s put on quite a bit of weight,’ one said.

‘I know. Age isn’t kind to some ladies,’ her friend replied. ‘Ahem.’ Greta stood beside them and picked up a cookie.

‘I’m forty-five and proud of it,’ she said, biting it into it. ‘Worth every extra pound, don’t you think?’

The women paused with their cakes suspended mid-air, before nodding sheepishly.

Greta attempted to spark interest in her acting classes, but the attention was elsewhere, mostly on the kitchen, which looked like it had been trampled by a herd of buffalo.

She joined Josie at the door, wearily bidding goodnight to the guests as they filtered out.

‘Sorry everything didn’t go to plan. I can’t thank you enough,’ Josie said. She handed Greta a brown envelope containing her small fee. ‘I’m not sure I’m cut out to run a coffee shop . . .’

Greta mustered a tired smile. After tonight, she felt the same way about performing in public.

She said goodnight, then called Lottie while trudging to her car, leaving a message on her voicemail. ‘Hi, sweetheart. I’ll be home soon. Hope your rehearsal went well.’

Rain pelted down, and Greta hunched her shoulders against the cold. The streets were empty and quiet, and icy droplets snaked down her neck, making her shiver. In the dark, she noticed a hunched figure approaching, and Jim’s warning about staying safe echoed in her mind. She tried to swerve, but the person bumped her arm.

Startled, Greta dropped her car keys and stooped to pick them up. When she looked up, a woman in a long, dark coat stood over her. Her face was part hidden by a voluminous hood, and long tendrils of her damp white hair hung down. With a quick muttered apology, the stranger handed a piece of paper to Greta and hurried across the road.

As she stood up, Greta’s heart thudded in her chest. Under the dim street lamp, she uncurled her fingers and glanced at the flyer. It was probably just a pizza menu, but the vintage-style design caught her eye. It featured an illustration of a white rabbit and the words ‘Looking for the Perfect Blend?’ Beneath it was an image of a jar with the label ‘Drink Me.’

She gripped the flyer tighter, unsure what it was even promoting. A strange feeling of curiosity rippled through her body. Looking for the perfect blend? In her life, she most certainly was.

She climbed into her car and tossed the flyer onto the passenger seat. Sitting there for a moment, she flopped her head against the steering wheel as the evening’s events raced through her mind. Was she ever going to get her life back on track?

With a deep sigh, Greta turned the key in the ignition and waited for the engine to rumble to life. The light from the street lamps twinkled orange in the raindrops on the wind- screen, and she released the handbrake.

It was probably just a trick of the light, but as Greta pulled off the car park, she could have sworn the white rabbit on the flyer gave her a wink.

From The Time Hop Coffee Shop by Phaedra Patrick. Copyright © 2025 by Phaedra Patrick. Published by Park Row Books, an imprint of HarperCollins.

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Before…

Year 495 after Nuh’s great flood,

Era of the heavenly birds

Tezmi’a Mountains, Azadniabad Empire

I would inherit the power of the Heavens, Uma had said so.

But my power was a curse, this she did not have to say. Like any great legend, my tale began with tragedy.

In the stories later recounted from my maternal uncle, my uma had a glad-tiding the night of my birth, as all mothers of gifted children did. It was near the winter solstice in the year 495, she dreamt of light emanating from my infant body, bathing her in a cool glow. She knew the Divine had shown the power I would come to inherit: nūr, cold Heavenly light, the same spiritual power that flows through the firebird.

But that night when I sprang free of Uma’s womb, our chieftains dreamt of a world of darkness. War and destruction. She is an omen, the tribe murmured, despite my uncle the khan reprimanding their frivolous superstitions. Her mother refuses to name her, nor does her father, the Great Emperor, accept her. With his many wives and heirs, this child is but one of many. But Uma knew in her heart that blessings came with a little suffering, that was the Divine’s way. My child is neither cursed nor omen. She has the affinity of light. Uma liked her secrets. This one she tucked close to her chest.

In the spring pastures of our valley Tezmi’a, that year brought a drought that starved the lands, killing portions of herd. Other peculiar happenings sowed fear in the tribe: more raids, more deaths. When Uma suckled me, wild birds would encircle the yurt before flapping into the felt tents, spilling dried meat, spoiling the yak milk and provoking our hunting birds.

‘The girl is cursed,’ my clansmen argued.

‘The girl is simply a girl. And we are God-fearing men,’ my uncle would reprimand. ‘We blame misfortune on no one but our own sins.’

‘But the birds,’ the tribe would insist, ‘they surround the babe. She is unnatural!’ It was true – wherever I was carried there was the sweep of wings above, and birdsong from the trees.

Swaddling me close, the khan’s most favoured wife spoke. Babshah Khatun. To her, not one dared argue. ‘Enough, you superstitious fools. She is a blessing who has brought forth more birds for hunting. She is unusual; but, unusual children bear the greatest gifts. However I hear your fear. The chief folkteller has the hearts of their kinsmen, for they carry the histories of our sorrows. As your folkteller, Divine as my witness, I will make this babe my apprentice. She will carry with her the tales of your greatest joys and fears until the end of her days.’

The stern lady, though young, never broke her oaths. In irony, her oath became my curse. 

In the winter quarters, the best pastures were south of the alpine lake. That year, the khan’s tribe erected their yurts and herded thousands of yaks, wild mares and lambs at the base of the harsh snow-capped mountains, amongst the rolling green alpine meadows, thin grass growing above cold dirt. From the lake, icy streams broke through the rocky grasslands of Tezmi’a.

It was my seventh Flood Festival, commemorating the day Nuh left the ark after the Great Flood. That morning, the children competed, to see whose prized hunting bird would find the keenest prey. Before long, the khan’s favoured wife interrupted and led the children up the pastures until they reached the end of the settlement of tents, toward the thick woodland. 

Some of the tribe’s warriors, who’d escorted goods and cattle across the mountain pass for the emperor’s merchants, rested against the boundary of trees, waxing their compound bows. Others sipped apricot tea to fling back the wet chill, nodding to us in greeting. The khan sat with them, my uma – his sister – beside him. When she spotted our group, Uma scowled and stalked toward us.

‘O, Babshah, what senseless idea do you have now?’

Babshah Khatun merely smiled in silence. Uma placed a hand against my back, staring at the hunting birds cowing upon my shoulder. She warned, ‘Do not go too south of the mountain pass. There are patrols from the enemy clans who snatch away children like her.’

Still Babshah Khatun continued deep into the womb of the valley, past protruding boulders, and clumps of elm, into the tall deep grasses that fattened the wild onagers. Trails where humans rarely ventured, and the jinn-folk still reigned. The wind whispered into the children’s hair. The entombed roots of wizened trees sprawled through the woodlands, and whizzing sprites, those mischievous little apprentices to the long-passed fae of these lands, showered seeds to pollinate the flora. A deceivingly drowsy day for the violence that it promised. A place where the old ways still mattered and the Divine-made boundary between jinn-folk and human blurred.

Determined, I tripped along next to Babshah, resisting the urge to clasp the long end of her yak leather tunic, lest she think me not brave. Even my hunting buzzards on my shoulders canted their heads, curious.

Babshah sat squat and brushed her pale hand across the dirt. Her black hair swung with the wind, a dozen thin braids clasped in silver beads and an array of hawk feathers, not dissimilar to my own. The only difference was a camel-skin cord around her temple with a blue wooden block indicating her status as a wife of the khan.

‘Today, we will do a new type of hunt,’ Babshah declared. ‘Hunting by folktelling.’

The children murmured amongst themselves, but Babshah did not elaborate. Instead, she latched on to my hand – ‘Prepare yourself, my apprentice’ – before continuing along the fir path.

When we stopped, and it came time for our hunting pairings, my milk-sibling Haj refused to take me as a partner. He was ten years old, only three years my senior, but the gap was large enough to fuel his arrogance. He took his complaints to Babshah.

‘My uma says to stay away from her, else she will curse my bird’s game! I train with a spotted sparrowhawk. The girl trains with a pair of sooty buzzards. Smaller and useless, just like her. With all the birds that follow her, she will scare away the prey.’

‘I may be Ayşenor’s only child, but I am not useless,’ I muttered, keeping my lip from trembling.

***

Excerpted from Dawn of the Firebird by Sarah Mughal Rana, Copyright © 2025 by Sarah Mughal rana. Published by Hanover Square Press.

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Now

September 26, 2019, 1:15 p.m.

The Library of Fates lived tucked under the mansarded roof of a tall, charcoal- gray building in Harvard Yard. To a casual visitor, it was like any other library, lined with shelves for hours of pleasantly aimless browsing. But every student knew that if you came to the Library of Fates and asked for a book to guide you safely through turbulent times, the librarian would go straight to the shelf and put a book in your hands. And that book would change your life.

Eleanor Dennet was that librarian now, but the knowledge felt hollow. Her predecessor, Odile Vernet— her mentor, her guiding star, her best friend— had died suddenly three days ago, and she could barely process it.

Her throat still raw from crying, her brain still woozy from too much vodka, she stepped over the threshold of the library that had been her refuge for most of the past twenty-four years. On the surface, everything seemed the same: the dark oak paneling and moss- green area rugs and accents; the pearly glow that came through the recessed skylight; the sweet, faintly musty smell. The custodian had opened the curtains and blinds of the nine bay windows on each long side of the room. Sunlight bathed the books in a greenish haze and washed over the varnished seminar table and armchairs. The mural on the ceiling evoked the magic of stories.

But something felt different here. Something was wrong. 

Then Eleanor saw him.

From his seat in a green brocade armchair angled toward the window, he didn’t seem to have noticed her entrance. Barely daring to breathe, she took in black hair sprinkled with gray on the headrest and long lashes outlined on his cheek as he gazed down at a sheaf of papers in his hand.

Daniel Vernet, Odile’s son.

The last time they’d seen each other, in 1995, they’d been standing here in the library. Eleanor’s view of Daniel had been clouded by tears, but she would never forget his dark eyes gazing back as if she were a stranger. The bland way he’d smiled, as if she meant nothing to him after everything they’d been through.

And here were more damned tears, rising and choking her. She would have to face Daniel eventually, to give condolences and make arrangements for his mother’s memorial. But not yet. She wasn’t ready for that. She darted to the window bay farthest from his chair, silent on the thick carpet, and slipped behind the floor-length curtain.

Daniel sighed heavily. The papers crackled. Frozen in place, Eleanor watched through a gap as he stood up. He didn’t look his age, the lines of his chin and cheekbones still firm.

A sharp click- clack of heels sounded on the stairs behind them. “Ready, Daniel?” asked a slightly accented voice that Eleanor recognized as Liliana, Odile’s housekeeper and close friend.

Daniel nodded, but his gaze was still on the papers. “What the hell is this?” he asked. “What the hell?”

As the older woman put a soothing hand on Daniel’s shoulder, Eleanor saw his body heave. Was he grieving his mother, then? Their relationship had never been smooth. Though Odile visited her son in Europe on occasion, it had taken her death to bring him back to the States for the first time in decades.

Liliana gave Daniel a hug and led him toward the door. “Everything will work out. You’ll see. We don’t want to be late for our appointment.”

“I’m just so confused!” Eleanor heard him still exclaiming as their feet thudded down the stairs.

She emerged from behind the curtain and stood very still, waiting for the tension to dissipate and the atmosphere to settle. Listening for a faint but steady thrum on the edge of her awareness, a rumble that was neither pipes nor heating. Like Odile, Eleanor was attuned to the library’s vibrations, inaudible to most people.

But now, standing dead center in the library, straining her senses in the stillness, she detected no reassuring thrum. Nothing. As if the library were an immense machine that had stopped running.

Panic gripped her. It can’t be.

She hurried to the oak door at the far end of the room and unlocked it with trembling fingers. Here in the librarian’s small office, The Book of Dark Nights was kept, secure in a safe, its pages alive with the power of the secrets trapped inside, for the library drew its power from the Book. As long as the Book remained there, the library would function.

On top of the safe, she found a sticky note in Odile’s strong cursive:

A place of pages,

A subterranean secret,

Where love is shared.

One book brought you together.

 Start from there.

Eleanor stared at it for a dazed second. Odile often left literary quotes on sticky notes, but this didn’t seem like the style of poetry she would read— or write, if Odile had been a poet.

Then she knelt beside the safe to type in the code. Fumbling in her urgency, she had to enter it twice before the light turned green and she could swing the door open. Eleanor closed her eyes and said a silent prayer: Please let it be here.

The Book had been stolen only once, and the results had been disastrous. Eleanor tried not to think about them as she reached into the safe for the cracked calfskin of the Book’s binding, bracing herself to feel the usual tingle as her fingers made contact. Needing to experience that uncanny suggestion that the Book was alive. To know that it was only Daniel’s presence that had made the library feel wrong.

But there was nothing.

She knew people saw her as Odile’s mousy, adoring acolyte, hidden away in the library like a relic herself. A perennial student who had never even finished her PhD. A wan spinster, a living history display. Here in the library was the one place Eleanor mattered. In these books is your future, Odile had told her long ago. In these books are all the tools you need to live your life to the fullest. But all that depended on the magic.

And as she ran shaky fingers from corner to corner of the steel compartment, she found only shadows and a fine, powdery dust that came off on her fingertips.

The Book of Dark Nights was gone.

Excerpted from THE LIBRARY OF FATES by Margot Harrison, Copyright © 2025 by Margot Harrison. Published by Graydon House, an imprint of HarperCollins.

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Aphrodite I

I’m a liar, to begin with.

Well, if I’m being exceedingly honest with you – and I am trying – I was nothing at all, to begin with. Then I was my father’s testicles. Then the weaver of Fate itself, which is when the lying started. After that, it all got a bit complicated.

I was the daughter of Ouranos. The daughter of Zeus. The daughter of no one at all. A winner, a loser, though never much in between. The world standard of beauty and a crone, both. Olympus’ very own it-girl. Maybe the worst wife in all of history. A lover, a friend, a co-conspirator. A snitch. Selfless – once or twice. A bitch – more than twice. A monster, a villain, a victim – if you must. A good mother, a bad mother, a really bad mother. Lonely and famous and beloved and alone. Precious and worthless. A rival, a cheat. Afraid, often, and terrifying, also often. Oh, and I started a war. That’s very important.

The goddess Aphrodite. I was that too. I don’t think I am

anymore. Look, it’s all very knotted. Maybe I should start from the beginning.

First, there was Chaos, which meant something different then to what it does now. The time of Chaos was empty. It was a blank canvas for the optimists and an endless sinkhole for the pessimists. It was a time of absolutely nothing. I suppose I was nothing then, but we all were, so I won’t hold that against her.

Chaos was empty, until she met Nyx. I like to think that the two of them were in love, but I’ve never met my grandmothers, so I can’t say for certain. The two of them created the earth and the seas and the sky, and they had three children to gift them to.

Their daughters received the sea and the earth, and they were happy with them.

Their son wasn’t, as is the way of youngest children. He wanted to be the king of a world consisting of only five people, so they let him.

My father, given the world like a toy so he’d play nicely with his sisters. I suspect he was spoiled rotten, but then I quite like being spoiled, myself. And he did ask, before he took. He spoke with such conviction about the glittering future he would bring, the life he would spread across this world, that they believed him.

Ouranos became the first king of this world. He took his sister to be his wife and he made good on his promises. Together – let’s not give him all the credit; he didn’t carry their children – they filled the world with life. They brought forth the Titans, beings more powerful than even they were, who could control the elements around them more easily than breathing. And they brought forth the Cyclopes, and the Hecatonchires – the hundred-handed ones – who Gaia loved and who did not ask for power, only a life, which meant Ouranos did not respect them. He thought them irrelevant to the world, because they didn’t demand to own it. They lived between the oceans and created beautiful wonders with all the energy they saved from fighting.

I don’t know how many children they had together. It doesn’t matter. All that really matters is it was one child too many.

It’s always the youngest son who has the most to prove.

Their youngest was a Titan, Cronus. He wanted to be king too, only Ouranos wasn’t like his mothers. He didn’t want to give up what was his.

Cronus asked for power; his father said no. Cronus did not ask a second time.

So the world came to know a new word: war.

It didn’t last long, that first war. It couldn’t. All the Titans could be counted on fingers and toes.

Cronus armed himself. He went to the Cyclopes and asked for their support. He promised them positions in his new order, new lives beneath the sun instead of deep below the sea. He told them he would respect them as their father never did. And he let their conversation be heard just enough to build fear in his father.

It’s a bold strategy, to tell your enemy that you’re coming, but it works well with the men in my family. They’re so afraid of it, it eats away at them, into their very bones, and they forget that they’re anything other than the position they hold.

Ouranos ordered the Cyclopes sent to Tartarus, a prison in the underworld he’d had to create personally, because one had never been needed before.

(It’s a problem when you’re an immortal fighting other immortals. You have to be careful about who you piss off because there’s no getting rid of them. They’ll be there, hating you. Forever.)

How Cronus himself escaped being tied up in proto-damnation is beyond me, but he did. I suspect his mother helped. He promised her – how they promise! – he would free her sons, bring them to the power they deserved. When Cronus was king, everyone would live equally in a utopia, just below him.

He had his people behind him. He had his shining vision for the future. He had the weapons and the belief. It was only a matter of time.

He followed his father across the land, over the oceans, waited for the perfect storm to be whipping around them, for winds too loud for words – I know that for certain. I made my entrance soon enough.

I think it’s unlikely they’d have had much to chat about, anyway. When you get to weapons at dawn, what do you say?

I want power!

No, me!

No, me!

They were both armed, but Cronus’ reach was longer. That’s been true of every new generation I’ve seen, that they’re just a little bigger than their parents, trying to prove they’re better in the most

pointless of ways.

Cronus carried a sickle. I don’t know what my father’s weapon was. He lost.

There was no point in aiming to kill. There never has been, for us. Instead, Cronus thought of the worst shame he could possibly imagine, and he castrated his father.

Chopped his balls off.

De-testicled him.

I’ve heard every possible variation of the phrase, some with great solemnity and some with a snigger, and I’ve never been able to explain why I’m not laughing.

I can tell you now, though.

Those balls were me.

I grew from them. I was born from them. They were me and I am them and that will always be the truth. That is my beginning.

I made my debut at the end of the first great war, in a storm unlike any other, as the world turned itself upside down trying to find its way in the new order. All of this is true, yet my birth is reduced to a punchline.

I hid it for so long, not wanting my entire existence to be reduced to one man’s shame, but I’m over that now. I’m much more famous than him, after all.

I’ve always wondered how Cronus managed to castrate him so neatly. It was only my father’s testicles that made me – call my knowing that feminine intuition, if you want – but Cronus used a sickle.

How? Were they hanging so low? Was Ouranos’ stance so wide because he needed the world to see his mighty balls? What possible physical arrangement leads to one man being able to castrate another with a weapon made for cutting wheat?

Cronus would have had to practise, but he can’t have. Surely he had better things to do in the war, and I’ve met some of his generals. I can’t imagine them offering themselves up for the chop.

That one is a mystery for the ages, I’m afraid, but it doesn’t matter, because now I’m here. That’s it. All of the relevant history before I arrived. Done.

Cronus lifted his arms in mighty victory and bellowed so that all around him could cheer and crown him the new king of everything. Like his father, he went home and married his sister, ready to fill the world with people who looked just like him.

Ouranos, newly ball-less, gave an anguished cry.

‘You think yourself so smart, so powerful, but one day you will be just like me, dethroned by your own children.’

Cronus looked at his father’s crotch. ‘I will never be just like you, will I?’

He ordered Ouranos tied and bound in Tartarus, that prison of his own making, never to be seen again.1

So distracted were they by their respective shouting that the testicles fell into the ocean, instantly swallowed by the swells of the waves, pulled down into utter blackness, presumed lost.

Wrong.

1 For a certain value of never. We are immortals, after all. —A

Excerpted from Aphrodite by Phoenicia Rogerson. © 2025 by Phoenicia Rogerson, used with permission from Hanover Square Press, an imprint of HarperCollins.

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How does the horse look?

Victoria Rogers pressed her good arm to her very bruised, almost broken ribs. “Dad, don’t,” she said, trying to stay as still as possible. “You can’t be funny. It already hurts to breathe. It wasn’t a horse.”

Her father frowned. “I was told you were thrown off a horse.” “I was thrown out of a truck.”

“Then how’d you get the black eyes?”

“The ground was a little bit pissy when I hit it and punched me back.”

There wasn’t a part of her that didn’t hurt. The good news was that now that the medical staff had determined she didn’t have a head injury, they were going to give her drugs to help with the pain. She’d already said she didn’t want any of that weak-ass pill stuff. She wanted a nurse to give her a shot of something that would work instantly and let her rest. Because in addition to the bruised ribs, requisite scrapes and contusions, she had a broken left leg and a sprained wrist. Her previously dislocated shoulder also throbbed, but that was kind of the least of it.

As she lay in her hospital bed, feeling like death on a tortilla, she had the thought that maybe stunt work wasn’t for her. Injuries came with the job, but this was the third time in five years she’d landed in the hospital. The first time she’d messed up, so that was on her, but the other two had just been plain bad luck. The incident with the truck had come about because one of the tires had blown, causing the however many ton vehicle to jump the curb—an action that had sent her flying up and over the side. Gravity, being the bitch it was, had flung her onto the sidewalk. Hence the injuries.

Her father studied her, his brows drawn together in concern. “None of this makes me happy,” he told her.

The incongruous statement nearly made her laugh. She remembered—just in time—that her ribs wouldn’t appreciate the subsequent movement and they would punish her big-time. 

“Today isn’t my favorite day either,” she admitted, trying not to groan. “I didn’t wake up with the thought that I should try to get thrown out of the back of a pickup.” Although technically getting thrown out of the truck had been the stunt. Just not when it had happened and without warning or a plan.

“I’m worried,” her father told her. 

“I’ll be fine.”

“This time.”

She winced, and not from pain. “Now you sound like Mom.” 

Her father, a handsome man only a few months from his sixtieth birthday, brightened. “Thank you, Victoria. That’s such a nice thing to say.”

Given her weakened condition, she let that comment slide. Honestly she didn’t have the strength to deal with it right now, even though she knew her father understood exactly what she’d been saying. He was only pretending to not get it.

“If you’re going to act like that, you should go,” she said, then amended what could be construed as a catty comment into something more kind. Mostly because she only had the emotional energy not to get along with one of her parents, and her mother had already claimed that prize. “Besides, they’ll be bringing my drugs any second. I plan to surrender to sleep, so I’m not going to be very conversational.”

As if to prove her point, one of the nurses walked in with a syringe. “Ready to feel better?” he asked cheerfully.

“Yes, and let me say, you’re my favorite person ever.” 

He winked. “I get that all the time.”

He slowly injected whatever the medication was into her IV. Victoria drew in a shallow breath as she waited to feel that first blurring of the edges of the pain. Modern medicine was a miracle she intended to embrace.

The nurse left. Milton took her good hand in his.

“I’ll let you rest,” he told her. “But I’ll be back later tonight.” He squeezed her fingers. “Tomorrow, when you’re released, I’m taking you home.”

Ugh. Victoria knew that her father wasn’t talking about the pretty condo he’d bought her when she’d turned twenty-one. Instead he meant the house where she’d grown up. The one where her mother still resided.

“I don’t need to move back,” she protested, feeling the first telltale easing of the pain. “I have a few bumps and bruises.”

“Along with a broken leg. And what about your ribs? You can barely move without wincing.”

“I have zero pain tolerance. I’m a total wimp.”

He frowned. “You’re tough and stoic. If you’re showing signs of pain, it’s bad. You’ll stay with your mother and me until you’re well enough to be on your own.” He pointed at her. “I mean it, Victoria. You don’t get a vote.”

Her father was rarely stern with her, so his sharp tone warned her he wasn’t kidding. And she knew from twenty-four years of experience that arguing with the man would get her nowhere. Milton didn’t take a stand very often, but when he did, he was the immovable object.

“I wish you loved me less,” she murmured, feeling a little floaty and stumbling over her words. “Okay, I feel drugs. Let me enjoy the experience of breathing without, you know, wanting to die.”

Oh, baby girl. You’ve always been difficult.”

“I know. It’s one of my best qualities.” Her eyes drifted closed. “Love you, Dad.”

“Love you more.” He kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you tonight.” 

“Come alone.”

His soft chuckle was the last thing she heard.

Excerpted from Otherwise Engaged by Susan Mallery, Copyright © 2025 by Susan Mallery Inc. Published by MIRA Books. 

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BRIBE BAGS

JULIA SONG HATED being the center of attention.

So standing here at the head of the conference table, expect-ant eyes of Very Important People all on her, was pretty much torture.

But Julia was the CEO of Starlight Cosmetics, this company was her baby, these VIPs the executives she hired to help grow the business. And the news she had to share with them was monumental.

She scanned her memory for the advice from her executive coach for this kind of situation. The only thing she could remember was, contrary to everything she’d ever been told before in her life, never try to picture your audience naked. It would make the nerves even worse.

And, of course, now that’s all Julia could think of.

She closed her eyes for a moment to clear her mind of all the unfortunate images fighting to run through her head.

What was that one thing her coach told her?

Squeeze your butt cheeks to hold the plank. Wait, no, that was her abs coach.

If the recipe calls for garlic, double it. Wrong again. That was her cooking coach.

Oh, screw it. What was the use of having all these people to help Julia better herself when she couldn’t call upon the advice when needed?

She cleared her throat and decided to wing it.

“I know you’re all busy, so I’ll make this quick. Look, it’s not how I wanted to do this . . .”

Her dream, rather, was to one day point at each of them and tell them an exorbitant dollar amount for a bonus. Enough money for them to buy new homes in the hills or on the beach, whichever they preferred.

“Wait—are you firing us?” someone cried out from the other end of the table.

Julia’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “What? No, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Always start with something personal and positive to get people excited about what you’re going to say. Oh yeah, that’s the brilliant advice her coach had mentioned.

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so ominous.” Julia quickly backtracked. “It’s just that, well, at the risk of get-ting too squishy in a work meeting, I really wanted to thank you all for taking a chance on me way back when all of this was just an idea in my head.”

Julia swallowed the emotion building in her throat as she looked around at the team she’d put together to lead this company. They were the ones who took her idea to merge the best in the Korean skincare market with the high demands of the US consumer and built what was now one of the fastest- growing organic, clean K- beauty brands in America.

“I just want to tell you how much I appreciate your hard work and loyalty. I don’t know that any of us anticipated this kind of success. But honestly, none of it would have happened without each and every one of you and your contribution. And now, I have some really great news. As you know, Starlight’s Lotus Bamboo Essence was selected for Allure’s Best of Beauty awards. Which was a dream come true for us. But it doesn’t end there.”

Julia inserted the dramatic pause her public speaking coach had encouraged her to use. The looks of anticipation around the room fueled her excitement.

“I’m thrilled to share that the same Lotus Bamboo Essence has also been selected as one of this year’s Oprah’s Favorite Things!”

There was a silent pause of shock, followed by an eruption of applause and cheers, high fives, and hugs shared around the table.

“We’ll need to reforecast sales projections. We’re gonna blow up with the exposure . . .”

“We’re gonna have to update a comms plan . . .”

“We have to think of how we add this to the packaging design . . .”

“We need to make sure the supply chain can handle the increased distribution . . .”

“Oprah still has major influence on Gen X consumer spending. It’s a big win for a product . . .”

Yup, that was her team  .  .  . no- nonsense, capable, loyal, honest . . . and the hardest- working, most talented people in the industry. And they were all business, just like her.

Her chest swelled as she watched them leave to get back to work, patting each other on the back as they walked out, taking the noise with them.

Julia started this company at only twenty- six years old. She’d disappointed her parents by changing her major from pre- med to business administration. She lived off ramen and PB&J sandwiches for a good year just to scrape by as she worked tirelessly to research the hadn’t exactly welcomed her with open arms. And she stomached the start- up community’s boys’ club as she tried to secure funding for the company.

And four short years later, they were on the verge of something huge. Hard work and dedication had brought them to this level of success. So yeah, she was proud of them, proud of herself. And at only thirty, she was finally in a position financially to take care of her family without worry.

When the last person left her office, Julia turned to look out the windows, the hustle and bustle of Santa Monica ten floors below. She took a deep breath.

“That’s right, motherfuckers,” she screamed, while pumping her fist. She shook her hips back and forth, adding in some aggressive hair throws and, why the heck not, followed it with a body roll. “Oh yeah, uh- huh . . .”

“Oh dear, that’s something I’m not likely going to forget seeing.”

Record scratch.

Julia halted her celebratory dance and quickly patted down her hair, trying to tuck her I- knew- I’d- regret-these bangs behind her ear as her assistant, Annette, entered the office.

“Unlike what your schedule says on paper, you’ve only actually attended that hot yoga class once. Should you really be try-ing to move your body like that?” Annette asked. “I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“You’re fired.”

Annette passed her the cup of black coffee in the Morning Person mug that she knew was a lie, along with a multivitamin and a probiotic. Breakfast of champions.

“Just remember that I know where the bodies are hidden. Oh, and I have those pictures of you from that one holiday party . . .” 

“Okay, fine, you can stay,” Julia conceded. 

“Is it a good time to ask for a raise?”

Julia tried to shoot Annette a glare but couldn’t keep back the smile. It was a secret to no one that Annette was invaluable to the Starlight team, and most days she was the one bossing Julia around. Julia shook her head and took a seat at her desk. “Can you forward the O magazine email to the team so they know all the details?”

“You betcha,” Annette said. “Have you told your folks yet?” 

“No, not yet. I don’t think they’d even understand what a big deal this is.”

“Make sure to tell them.” Annette wasn’t only her assistant, she was also her work- mother as well. “Oh, and here is the updated short list of investors we might want to approach for global expansion. One bad meeting doesn’t have to halt progress.”

One bad meeting was an understatement. The last time Julia had met with an investment firm for an informational meeting, they kept asking about her significant other, driving home that they were a family- run business built on traditional values. They looked at her as young and inexperienced not because of her age— she knew plenty of male CEOs who were thirty— but because she wasn’t married with children. In their eyes, Julia wasn’t reliable because she wasn’t settled . . . settled down, that is.

Her accomplishments, alone, weren’t enough.

I’ll show them, she thought to herself as she gritted her teeth. Julia grabbed the list from Annette with a little bit more force than necessary and nodded. “Thanks.”

“Hey.” Annette softened her voice like she so rarely ever did. The one word in that tone made Julia surprisingly emotional. “It’s a good day, boss lady. You should be proud.” She patted Julia on the shoulder before walking back to her desk just outside Julia’s office.

Excerpted from JULIA SONG IS UNDATEABLE by Susan Lee. Copyright © 2025 by Susan Lee. Published by Canary Street Press, an imprint of HarperCollins.

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1

Tess Azar’s notes on Rose Dearborn:

Tall. Sharp green eyes. A small, pointed nose. Pale. Red hair, worn down, falls just below her shoulders, framing her compact face. Her posture is pristine, and she appears to be flexing, though that may be her natural state. Her hands are folded, left over right. She sports an unblemished French manicure and light pink lipstick that you’d never notice unless you were looking for it. She has two earrings on her left ear, both in the lobe, and one on her right. They’re all diamonds, and I’m sure they’re real. She wears a light blue Oxford shirt. It looks like it was designed for her frame—towering and athletic, without succumbing to bulk. Over the shirt, she wears a light jacket, tan and slim fitted, with bronze buttons. It looks like it was born to be a man’s jacket but changed its mind when it met her.

She had me from the start. It was her wave. It showed the world she came from, the sophistication, the poise, the casual superiority. It was a wave that had been passed down, refined, choreographed. A stiff hand, a pirouette, a fold. It was elegant in its learned simplicity.

She paired it with a vacant, performative smile. It wasn’t for me. It was for the watchers. It told the world that she wasn’t, despite appearances, one of those people. She was, in fact, a normal person, perhaps even a kind one.

I nodded my acknowledgment and matched her smile. Mine was professional, a journalist’s smile, continuing the performance we were engaged in.

We were meeting at an outdoor café on campus. One of those places where students bring their laptops and pretend to work. It’s not a place to work, not true work. It’s a place to be seen to be working.

 She stood as I sat, a prosaic gesture that nonetheless endeared her to me.

I felt the cool spring breeze and heard birds singing in a tree nearby. A woman shouted in the distance, and I didn’t even turn to look. I assumed it was playful. I used to be able to assume that.

“Tess,” she said, not a question but a statement of fact. “And you’re Rose?”

“Yes.” She smiled and took a sip of her coffee. She placed it down, and I noticed it was uncovered, no lid in sight.

I looked at my own cup, a lipstick-stained plastic lid of shame sitting atop it. I felt her eyes on it, felt the judgment. I shouldn’t have had a lid. I should’ve told them I didn’t want one. Lids were plastic, single-use plastic. They were death. They were climate change. They were a stain upon you as a person.

I tore it off, and the steam burned my hand. I didn’t flinch, too afraid it would be another strike against me. Rose looked like the type of person who never flinched, who never got sick or hurt. She looked like she went to the cape on the weekends and played tackle football with her brothers and more than held her own.

I pulled out my notebook, almost knocking over my coffee as I did so. The cup rattled, but I grabbed it before it tipped and smiled an apology. I opened to a fresh page, and, as I always did when beginning an interview, I took down a description.

“Are you writing a novel?” Her voice was cold and clipped, formal and challenging.

I blushed, and my skin turned a few shades darker. I’m sure she noticed. Rose looked like she never blushed. Or at least never out of embarrassment. I imagined she did on occasion, but with a purpose.

I hid in my notebook. “No, I, uh, well…”

I hated myself. It was odd for me. I wasn’t like that. I wasn’t a stammering, stumbling fool. I wasn’t often awed. I was the one in a relationship who was distant. I was the one who was unaffected by the end of the affair, the one who needed to be wooed.

But there was something about her, an aura, a magic. Some- thing that changed me, disrupted me. I both hated and loved it. Longed to be free of this pull and to never leave it. One could chalk it up to the difference in age—Rose was twenty-one to my nineteen, but it was more than that. She had something. Something I wanted.

I twirled my pen around a finger and clicked it. It was a nervous habit, one that would take years to tame. Rose watched, a cryptic smile in her eyes. I placed my phone on the table and set it to record. “Do you mind?”

She shook her head, but I could feel her quiet disapproval. “I just like to get the setting down,” I said and motioned to

my notebook. I calmed myself by sipping the spring air, a slight scent of grass being cut somewhere in the distance. ““I was taught that if you have the time, you should overwrite, even in journalism. Easier to cut later. ‘Never trust your memory’ is what my professor says.”

This wasn’t true. My professors would be appalled by my long, florid notes. They advocated direct, blunt ones. But I wasn’t writing for them. Not anymore. I’d already developed my own strategies, my own style, and my notes were part of that.

She met my eyes, an intrigued look cresting across her face. I’ll never forget that look and the feeling that accompanied it, tracing up my spine and nesting in my skull. I felt my embarrassment disappear. I remembered who I was. I remembered that I was someone, and she knew it.

“Well.” She drank her coffee. I followed her lead. Mine was still too hot, and it scalded my throat. “I guess whatever you’re doing, it’s working.”

And there it was. The reason she’d come. It was a hint, a slight lead, but we both knew where she was taking the conversation. I may have my objective, my questions, my story, but she didn’t care. She wanted to discuss it. She met me so she could discuss it.

“I still have a lot to learn —”

“But to have an article receive national attention as a sophomore.” She cut me off with the ease of someone used to doing it. “My guess is it won’t be long before the job offers start coming.”

They already had, but she didn’t need to know that. Not yet. You need to save things. You need to build a relationship with patient precision if you want it to last.

I nodded and went back to my notebook. I should’ve steered the conversation, transitioned from my success to the work- shop. But I couldn’t, I wanted to press on, I wanted to talk more about my article. I wanted to astonish her and luxuriate in that astonishment.

That’s all it took. A little acclaim, a little attention, and, as I’m sure she’d planned, I’d forgotten my questions, my story.

“Now.” She unstacked her hands and moved one toward mine. “I’m not a journalist, just a fiction writer, but I felt your piece transcended the subject and demonstrated an uncanny ability to be informative, engaging, and unique. I couldn’t put it down, and more to the point, I found myself rereading it even after knowing the story, which I feel is a true test of great writing. Your work doesn’t read like journalism. It reads like fiction, good fiction.”

I felt the familiar warmth of praise pulse through me.

Her assessment was pretentious and vapid, it said nothing. It raised my own work by comparing it to the vaunted heights of fiction and, in doing so, denigrated journalism, but I didn’t care. “Thank you.” I tried to temper my grin. “I appreciate that.

It was a good article, and I was pleased with the exposure it received. That’s an important issue that I think will continue to pervade our society.”

I was trying to match her. Her intellectual snobbery, her placid distance, her broad generalities.

“So.” She leaned forward, and I found my eye tracing down to the opening of her shirt. I caught a glimpse of lace and looked away, landing on her forearm. It was exposed, and

 I could just make out a pale purple bruise. She noticed and dropped her arm beneath the table. “I have to ask. How did you get the interview? How did you get him to agree to that? To say all that?”

I nodded and leaned back. This was what they always asked. This was what made the article. This was why it garnered national attention, why everyone was talking about it, why I was someone.

Hearing her ask the same, tired question settled me.

I ran a finger along the seam of my pants and looked around, debating whether to do it, whether to take the leap. I felt the brief flutter of nervous excitement that we all come to know at some point.

I paused and felt my heart rattle. It felt wrong. She should be the one to ask me out, not the other way. I didn’t even know if she was gay. But somehow, I did. I could tell. I could feel an opening. This was my chance. She was curious, everyone was. I had a story, I had cache, I was someone, if only for a moment. So, I leapt. “How about this? You have dinner with me tomorrow night, and I’ll tell you how I got the interview. Deal?”

The question hung in the air as it always does, time elongating—heavy and thick with anxiety but exhilarating. All the world is packed into that pause between the question and the answer.

“What, like a date?” She tilted her head, a smile leaking out of the side of her mouth, a slight hue dampening her cheeks.

I nodded.

Someone shouted at a table not far from us, and chairs scraped against the ground.

“All right,” she said, her smile spreading. “Deal.”

And just like that, the anxiety exploded into a million shards of light. I was ebullient. I was phosphorescent. I was invincible. After that, I tried to stay present, tried to listen to what she said, to not think about the future that was already being crafted

in my mind.

But it was no use, I was gone. My mind was adrift. There were winters skiing and summers sailing. There were literary arguments and good coffee. There was an initial frigid period with her family. A tense scene with her grandfather where he reverted to his old prejudices, dismissing the whole of me based on the half that was Lebanese, but I won him over by talking history and baseball. I became one of them. And later, there were galas and houses full of antiques and rich wood.

“I guess you’re not here to talk about your article, are you?” She shifted back. “You’re here to talk about Jack.” Her face fell, her hands fidgeted in her lap. The color left her cheeks. The radiance of our previous conversation still lingered, but it was just a residual taste. We’d moved on.

I nodded but said nothing. Being a journalist is a lot like being a therapist. You need to draw them out. You need to make them comfortable and then let them talk.

“Terrible, just horrible.” She looked like a different person, like an actor trying to play Rose in a marginal play. “Such a waste.”

I let the silence linger, hoping she’d continue. When she didn’t, I eased into it. “Did you know him well?”

She nodded, and took her forefinger and thumb and pinched the bridge of her nose as if that could stop the tears and the pain. “Yes, of course. We all… I mean, you know about it, right? About the workshop? Dr. Lobo?”

I did. Everyone knew about the workshop. It was a creative writing group on campus, not an official workshop, whatever that means, just a group of students whom an acclaimed professor had taken an interest in.

Dr. Lobo’s workshop. Sylvia’s kids. The Creative Writing Cult.

Sylvia Lobo’s second novel, A Wake of Vultures, was an instant classic. She was teaching here as an associate professor when she wrote it, and after its publication, she became an instant celebrity. Now she teaches creative writing and gives few lectures. I took one during my first semester. Someone had dropped right when I was registering, otherwise, I’d have never

gotten in. It was on the erosion of the past in literature. Novels set during times of change with characters who are stuck in the past and grappling with the future. It was an eighty-person class, and I don’t think I said more than three words all year.

“Yeah,” I said. “I know about Dr. Lobo.”

“Have you read any of her work?” The energy that had left us returned.

“I’ve read A Wake of Vultures and Jezebel.”

Rose tried to hide her excitement and nodded to herself. I could tell I’d passed a test. “I’ll give you Chariot Races and Bubblegum. If you like those, we can go from there. If not…”

More tests. But that was all right. For her, I would take them.

“You’re all very close, right?”

“Yes, Sylvia’s big on that. We’re all working toward the same goals and have the same interests, and it’s essential that we spend time together. She says it makes for better writing. Look at Paris in the twenties. Do you think it was an accident so many great writers were there at the same time?”

I took my time and wrote this down verbatim. It sounded rehearsed.

“Some people even…” She laughed. “…say we’re a bit of a cult.”

Her laughter stopped, and I made sure not to smile. This wasn’t a joke. This was a repudiation of a nasty piece of gossip. I’d have to be careful with that. I’d have to watch that I never hinted at the cultish atmosphere of the workshop.

People had good reason to call them a cult. They took all the same classes, not just Sylvia’s, but everything—history, science, even phys ed. They got coffee together at the same time every day. The same table, the same café, the same black coffee, the same far-off look while they drank. They ate lunch together. They ate the same things for lunch. They ate with purpose. Refined but rapid. They walked the same, hurried steps announcing their presence, clearing a path. They talked the same. The same talking points, the same articles referenced, the same political issues discussed, same positions held with fervor. They used the same words. They spoke at the same frantic pace. Their hands moved with their every word, painting a mute portrait of their argument. They used the same pens, same notebooks, read the same books, watched the same movies, chewed the same gum, smoked the same colorful French cigarettes, not because they were addicted, but because it stoked conversation and helped with the writing process.

They were the same. They were like her.

That was how she drank her coffee, how she ate, how she walked, how she spoke, how she thought.

They idolized her. They forced her works into their conversations. They cited her. Not just her published comments and writing but personal ones from conversations they’d had with her. They attributed immense weight to these citations as if mentioning her name ended all debate. If Sylvia said it, it wasn’t to be questioned. It was fact.

The cultish atmosphere of the program was why I decided to write the story. Why I was sitting there, interviewing Rose. Jack’s suicide was a part, but not the whole. I hoped to expand it, turn it into a piece on Sylvia and the workshop. Get a glimpse behind the curtain. See what was fact and what was fiction.

Rose stared at me after the cult comment. Judging me, reading my reaction. I met her stare and held it. “Well, these days, I think gossip is the sincerest form of flattery. As for Jack, I’m sorry for your loss.”

She nodded and raised a hand to her chest. “Yes, he was, well, very talented. We came in together, same class. We were both in her freshman seminar on literature’s obsession with the past.”

“I took that class.”

“Really? Not the same one though? I’m sure I’d have noticed you.”

“No, you wouldn’t have. But it must’ve been a different year,

you’re what, a senior?”

 “She teaches it every other year. You’re fortunate you got in.”

“I could say the same to you,” I said, unable to avoid the

opening to flirt.

“Hah.” She rolled her head back. She didn’t laugh. She said, hah. Spat it. “No, I sent her my writing from high school, two awful short stories about— Oh god, I don’t even want to say… one was about my high school friends and a teacher of ours, and the other was about a ski instructor. They were dreadful, but she saw something in them, something in me.”

She looked over at the sprouting trees that lined the walk, feigning to hide her satisfied smile. “She reads the work applicants send in, as do her current students, and selections are made. If she picks you, you’re assured a spot in her freshman seminar and the creative writing major and some other class- es. See, where most creative writing programs don’t really get serious until graduate school, she starts right away. Freshmen year. She believes that you need to get to a writer early, before they learn those bad habits and become just a poor imitation of some famous writer. She wants you raw, unadulterated, malleable.”

“I thought you said she teaches that seminar every other year?”

She shook her head as if I was a mistaken child. “Oh no, just that one class on literature and the past. She teaches that in even years. She teaches a different one on female writers and the diaspora in odd years.”

I nodded and smiled and waited.

She rubbed the bruise on her arm, caught herself, and dropped her hands, resuming her practiced pose of mourning. “Yes, I was close to Jack. We were in all the same classes. I was his shadow, as we called it. Like a peer editor, you read everything they write. He was my shadow too. Sylvia thought our work complemented one another’s. He was a genius, and I don’t use that word lightly. It’s a true tragedy. Not just for him and those of us who knew him but for the world. The world lost a great writer.” Another tear, she lifted a napkin to stop it. “I edited his book. The one that we—Sylvia and I—are helping to finish. You know about that, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Sylvia worked to get it published, not that it was all that difficult, it’s a brilliant novel. But she took it on. She wanted to… She knew it was what he would’ve wanted. And now, at least, that part of him will live on. A tribute of sorts.”

“I hear the money’s going to charity?”

“A suicide prevention charity. And some will go to the creative writing program here as well, help to make it official, and I think some is going other places, but I don’t have the details on that.”

“Any to his family?”

“He didn’t have family. An uncle upstate somewhere, whom he grew up with, but they weren’t close, and I think he passed away. His parents weren’t in the picture.”

“Anyone else you think I should talk to?” I was afraid to push too hard too soon. You can always come back with more questions. You can always have a second interview, provided, of course, you remain on good terms.

“People in the workshop. I can give you some names. Intro- duce you.”

“That’d be great.” I looked down at my notebook, pretending to scan it, knowing what I needed to ask. “Look, Rose, I’m sorry to ask this, but I have to. Do you have any idea why he would’ve done this? I heard he didn’t leave a note.”

A writer not leaving a note. Seemed off.

She shook her head and forced another tear. “He was”— she ran a fingernail around the rim of her now-empty coffee cup—“troubled, like many writers are. It’s true what they say, ‘genius and madness flow from the same source.’ Good work often comes from pain, and I think, not to be unkind, but I think some can court it. Wallow in it. Again, I don’t mean to… I loved Jack, and it’s a tragedy what happened, but he lived in that pain. It’s what his work was about. He’d go into it and be down there and write, and after he finished, he’d come back up. He’d live in joy for a bit. But this time, with the novel, he was down there too long. He couldn’t surface.”

This, too, felt rehearsed. Maybe not quite scripted but planned. She knew I’d ask about it, and she was ready. There’s nothing wrong with that. Meeting with a journalist is stressful, and people like to be prepared.

But still, it felt off.

“Well,” I said, “I think that’s all I’ve got for today. I might have some follow-ups, but I’m sure you’re busy.”

“Yes, I have to decide what I’m wearing for our date.” I blushed and withdrew to my notes.

“I hope we won’t have to muddy that up with this?” she said. “No, I wouldn’t think so.”

We both stood, and I stared at her, straining my eyes, as she retreated into the falling sun.

Excerpted from A CAMPUS ON FIRE by Patrick O’Dowd © 2025 by Patrick O’Dowd, used with permission by Regal House Publishing.

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