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“And I’ll be reading in the snug right next to the library,” Heathcliff said, holding my hand in his and curling his fingers through mine protectively. “If that oaf so much as claims you have a comma out of place—”
“I’ll be fine.” I kissed his rough, stubbled cheek. “I can handle myself.”
I picked up my Braille note, and Oscar and I followed the other writers into the beautiful castle library. I’d seen it on the brief tour Jonathan had given us yesterday, but now I paused to take in its magical atmosphere.
The wind howled against the windows outside, but one of the staff had lit a blazing fire in the ancient inglenook fireplace. Bookshelves made of dark stained wood lined the walls, crammed with books and objects d’art. Mismatched armchairs were arranged in a semi-circle around the fireplace, with tables stacked with pens and stapled manuscripts, and the staff were putting the finishing touches on a buffet of brownies, cakes, and biscuits along one wall.
Even if Hugh was a dick, this weekend was definitely going to be memorable. Meddleworth House really was an experience!
We crowded around the fire and chose our places. I sat on one end of a studded leather Chesterfield. Oscar stretched out at my feet, enjoying the warmth of the fire, even though he remained alert in case I needed him. Christina sat beside me, her arms loaded down with notebooks. Killian took up a chair at a table behind her, part of the group but not. I didn’t like him there, watching us. He wasn’t a writer, so I didn’t understand why he was here. But I wouldn’t make a big deal out of it when Christina was the only person who’d been nice to me.
Charlie Doyle sat at a seat on the end, and I couldn’t help but notice he was wearing an ugly mustard-colored tie. Vivianne draped herself across a chaise lounge under the windows. With the grey light from the windows and the orange flickering of the fire, I could see that she was wearing a strangely low-cut, figure-hugging dress, which seemed an odd choice for the cold weather and the nature of our retreat, but I remembered she was here to enact her revenge plan, whatever that was. All night last night she sat across from Hugh at the table, loudly correcting him every time he talked and, according to Morrie, making his face ‘as red as your beautiful derriere after a session with my belt.’
Donna perched on a high-backed chair, her long legs folded, looking far too elegant to be a writer.
Only when we were all seated did Hugh Briston storm into the room. He lowered himself into a wingback chair beside the fire, facing us. He was a silhouette against the dancing flames, but I couldsensehis scowl from here. I don’t know why he did these retreats if he hated them so much.
The sound of Christina’s cries of ecstasy and Hugh’s grunts flashed in my memory.
Oh, that’s right. I do know why he does these retreats. They’re his recruiting ground for young, female writers.
“I hope you are all prepared to work,” Hugh barked without so much as a greeting. “During this series of workshops, I will impart every piece of wisdom on the crime fiction genre I have gathered during my long and prestigious career. We will discuss every subgenre of crime fiction, from procedurals and amateur sleuths, to the traditional British and the gothic, right through to the psychological thrillers so popular on the bestseller charts in the post-Gone Girlera. We will dig into prose, themes, suspects, red herrings, and the construction of a compelling mystery. You will work harder than you have ever worked in your life. In the afternoons, you will have a few hours to write, and in the evenings, we will gather in this room after dinner to read and critique each other’s prose from the day.”
Great.I can’t imagine anything more fun than having Hugh eviscerate my rough draft in front of everyone, except perhaps opening the time travel room in Nevermore Bookshop to find oneself in the Cretaceous era in the middle of a T-rex mating ritual—
“As you know,” Hugh continued, “at the conclusion of the retreat, I will select one author with promise and offer them a publishing contract with Red Herring Press, under my tutelage. This spot isn’t simply about getting out one book. It’s about building a career for the right author. This is no lovey-dovey safe space – you are competing against each other for your future. I suggest you bring your best work.”
Except that you already gave the contract to Charlie Doyle, and you’re going to make Christina write it, so what’s the point in stringing everyone along?
Beside me, Christina shifted excitedly in her seat. She was so certain Hugh was going to make her the next big thing.
Should I tell her what I heard? I don’t want to shatter her dreams, especially not on the first day of the retreat. But surely the sisterhood means that I need to tell her that Hugh is taking advantage of her?
I decided to talk it over with the guys at lunchtime. Right now, I was here to extract whatever useful information I could from this workshop. I leaned forward, my fingers poised on my Braille note, as Hugh waved something around. It was small and thin, but I couldn’t tell what it was, and I wasn’t going to ask him.
“This is my lucky pen,” he said as he raised the object in the air.Okay, so it’s a pen.I couldn’t see it, but it glinted where the firelight caught it, and I had a feeling it was some expensive gilded thing. “It’s made by one of the finest fountain pen makers in the world. We writers have our superstitions, our rituals. Every bestselling manuscript I’ve edited, every Bram Stoker or Edgar Award winner, has beencaressedby this pen…”
The way he said the word caressed made me throw up a little in my mouth.
“I’ll be using this pen liberally over the course of the week to show you the errors of your prose. Now, let’s discuss how superstitions play into mystery and crime novels. If we look to the queen of crime, Agatha Christie…”
For the next hour, I was transfixed as Hugh talked. He may have been an utter dickweasel, but he knew so much about the crime genre and books in general. My fingers flew as I typed on my Braille note, barely pausing as he moved breathlessly from one topic to the next.
“…of course, the supernatural in a mystery shouldn’t become a distraction, but must instead become another suspect to be examined with logic and reason by the detective. Supernatural forces must have a clearly defined motive and means for committing the murder. It cannot take over the story, lest we devolve into the realm of fantasy. And that leads me into our discussion of your works.”
He leaned over and picked up a stack of papers from beside his chair, and began to toss manuscripts at the writers in the room.
“I have marked up the first two chapters of each manuscript, so you can see what I’m talking about when I refer to the use of atmosphere in invoking the—”
A manuscript hit me in the chest.
“Excuse me, Mr. Briston,” I cut in, hating how cajoling my voice sounded. I desperately wished I didn’t have to say anything, but knew that I’d miss out on half the useful information from the retreat if I didn’t get this straightened out. “As you can see, I’m blind. I’m going to struggle to read handwritten notes you’ve made on my text. When I signed up I asked for notes to be electronic so I can read them on my Braille note and I was assured—”
“I’ll make things simple for you, Ms. Wilde,” he said in a haughty voice. “The only note I have made on your story is to put a huge red cross right the way through it.”
You fucker.
His words hit me like another gut punch. I gasped as the air drove out of me. I actually couldn’t breathe. Never in my life had I heard such a deliberately cruel comment directed at me.
