Page 64 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

“Yeah, but it’s our home.”

Chapter Twenty-One

At noon on December 28, Dylan and I pull two chairs up to the office desk and click the video-call link Kate Sharpe sent us. We emailed her eleven chapters of A Siren Calls two days ago. She confirmed receipt and our meeting, but she’s given us no hints about what she thinks of the work we sent her. Predictably, I’m a bundle of nerves. Dylan’s more outwardly composed than I am, but he’s been fidgeting all morning, and I know he’s feeling vulnerable and anxious, too. I’ve reminded him a dozen times that we got past chapter three. This is a win. He’s reminded me a dozen times that I invented the details for the magic fog that definitely wasn’t based on history. This is also a win. And we had fun. So much fun. If things don’t go any further, it was all still worth it, but that doesn’t stop either of us from wanting more, for ourselves and for each other.

An angular woman in chic black separates and bold red-framed glasses appears on the screen. A bright streak of silver cuts through her otherwise dark-brown hair, all of it pulled smoothly off her face before bursting into the organized chaos of an enormous topknot. She’s both understated and buoyantly expressive, and I like her immediately.

Dylan makes introductions since he knows Kate from his work with my grandmother. We warm up with a brief, polite conversation about everyone’s holidays, and then Kate shifts into business mode, patting a stack of papers on the desk before her.

“I have good news and bad news,” she says, and it’s all I can do not to grab Dylan’s hand. I want to look professional, like serious cowriters, not like lovers playing at being writers.

“Let’s hear it all,” Dylan says, and I’m grateful he’s taking the lead.

“The good news is that what you have here is solid. Fun. Sexy. It feels enough like the other books not to jar Iris’s fans but fresh enough to fit today’s market, with more interiority and a lush, cinematic quality to the scenes. Also, your timing’s great. Romantasy is hot right now.”

“Romantasy?” I can’t help asking, though it clicks as soon as I ask.

“Romantic fantasy,” Kate says. “It’s a relatively new term, but it took off fast. High-stakes fantasy worlds. A little magic. A lot of angst. Characters who hate each other until lust wins out and they bang. Basically, what Iris wrote, and if we can lean into the trend, great.”

Okay, I think. So far, so good.

Out of camera range, Dylan sneaks a quick, reassuring squeeze of my knee.

“I have a few notes for you to consider,” Kate continues. “Ways to bring in more of Scarlett’s ragtag crew, amp up the magic, and give us a stronger contrast between the two main love interests. I also suggest trimming some of the descriptions. Iris’s readers don’t care what a table’s carved from or how it was imported. Unless those details play key roles in the story, they bog down the pace. Action and emotion. Keep those words central in your minds.”

I almost laugh as I catch Dylan fighting a smile out of the corner of my eye, though he hides it well, nodding along to Kate’s suggestions. We argued for ages about that stupid table. He wanted to cut the description. I begged to keep it in, desperate for something that grounded us in a realistic world, one with logical international trade and where the lumber industry was at least negligibly related to what trees could grow in a given climate. But I guess Dylan was right, and hearing Kate echo his thoughts almost word for word reminds me how far out of my depth I am in trying to write these books, even while I’m willing to learn.

“All great notes,” Dylan says. “Happy to dive back in. So what’s the bad news?”

“I went ahead and reached out to Iris’s editor. I didn’t think I’d hear back over the holidays, but we’re all glued to our email these days.” Kate clicks her mouse, leaning forward to read from her screen.

We’re so excited about the possibility of more Zane Scarlett books, and we love that Iris’s assistant and granddaughter have taken up the reins. However, since neither author has a publishing history in full-length fiction, we’d need to see a complete manuscript to consider moving forward. We’d also need approval from the head of Iris Flynn’s estate, unless it’s already been granted? Let me know at your earliest convenience. I understood that the estate had a specific vision for the series, but if the authors secure the necessary approval, then I look forward to reading the full manuscript once it’s available.

Kate sits back, giving us a moment to respond.

For several seconds, I stare at her image on the screen, as if I’m either waiting for new information or waiting for the information I’ve already received to sink in. Dylan told me we might need to write a full manuscript before an editor would consider offering us a contract. I also knew my mom would have to get involved at some point, but I was hoping we’d have other people on our side first, because she’s not going to support this. Grams’s books were huge. They are huge. They’re still selling thousands of copies every year and getting new translation offers. Now that Grams’s notes are available to write from, the publisher can get a big name on board to finish the series. My mom will want to pursue that, and she’ll want me to put my time and energy toward my actual career. Any support on this would only be “enabling.”

“We don’t have approval,” I say when I finally find the words. Then I explain the terms of my grandmother’s will, where Dylan and I found the notebooks, and the hope we’ve been nurturing that we have at least some rights to the material.

“We’d have to hire a lawyer to work through this,” Kate says. “But while you could argue that you have rights to the notebooks, the estate has rights to the characters and the world Iris developed. Anyone can create within the world, but to sell that creation, you need approval.”

Off-screen, Dylan finds my hand and gives it a squeeze, leaving our fingers entwined.

“Sounds like we know what we need to do next,” he says.

“Do you want me to make the call?” Kate asks.

I shake my head. “It’s probably best if I bring it up on my own. She won’t be happy, but a personal conversation might go over better than a professional negotiation.”

Kate nods, her expression sympathetic but professional, as though she senses this is complicated for me but she doesn’t need to know the details. Just the end result.

Dylan tells her we look forward to receiving her full notes and that he appreciates the time she’s given us, even if this is as far as the project goes. We agree to be in touch after I talk to my mom. With a polite sign-off, Kate ends the call.

For a long moment, Dylan and I sit quietly, holding hands. His thumb sweeps over my knuckles while I take deep breaths and let the jitters that built up before the call fade.

“She might surprise you,” he says.

“She might. But she probably won’t.”