Focus was what she needed, and so Beatrix had marched straight to the office in the back of the shop, pulled out her pen, and imagined that chains were binding her feet to the wooden legs so she wouldn’t be tempted to fidget herself into distraction.
But even then, no words came, and as Beatrix had continued to stare at those blank sheets in her notebook, which were normally so tightly packed with sentences that she had to squeeze them along the sides, the ache that had grown along her back from holding herself still gradually shifted to her chest.
Her imagination began to drift then, not toward a tale that could enchant and delight but a different kind of story altogether, one where Beatrix was at the center.
The scenes came to her in flashes, growing in their intensity the longer she allowed them time to feed off her deepest anxieties.
She saw herself standing up from the desk as the day came to a close, having failed to string together even two syllables that were worth keeping. Heart racing, Beatrix envisioned the sight of her empty notebook as the shadows of sunset stretched across the blank pages. That impression was quickly consumed by another, though, one that caused her pulse to pound even harder. She was walking down the street, the snow having given way to spring sunshine that drew attention to her pensive expression and unmarked hands. Beatrix watched in horror as she imagined herself arriving at the front door of Donohoe & Company, where she stood in silence, trying to find the wordsshe’d need to explain that the deadline for the next novel didn’t have the barest wish of being met.
These fantasies were sewn from the fabric of Beatrix’s wildest fears for the future. And they grew and grew and grew until there wasn’t any space left for her characters’ voices to be heard through the recesses of her imagination.
But she continued to etch the finer points of each scene in her mind, drawing out the shadows that spilled across the sidewalks and the feeling of dread that unfurled in her chest as her fingers reached for the doorknob of the publishing house.
Beatrix, of course, knew that this wasn’t the story she should be bringing to life. But a jolt of alarm struck her to the very core whenever she considered what might happen should these nightmarish thoughts fade and reveal that there weren’t any fresh ideas waiting for her in the silence of her mind. And so, instead of turning away from the worst of possibilities, she kept drafting the details of an ending that was quickly taking on a hue of inevitability. Until a gentle tapping snapped her away from the troubles that could unfold and back to the present, where her senses were instantly captured by the scent of dusty books and the realization that someone was knocking on the door.
Beatrix stumbled up from the chair and moved toward the front of the shop, wondering who might be waiting in the alleyway.
“Jennings,” Beatrix gasped in surprise when she pushed open the door and saw him standing in the middle of a snowdrift. “What are you doing here?”
He was wearing another coat now, this one even more patched together than the first had been. Beatrix’s cheeks grew warmer as she thought of the coat draped atop the post of her bed and remembered that she hadn’t yet sent it back to Donohoe & Company so that Jennings wouldn’t be shivering in the snow. She’d meant to do it only yesterday, but the scent of coffeeand freshly cut paper that drifted from the fabric had made her forget why she needed to return it so hastily.
“Mr. Stuart asked me to find you, and when I went to the tearoom, your sister told me that you were working here,” Jennings said with a grin that managed to stay fixed despite his chattering teeth.
“It must be rather urgent, then,” Beatrix said, pulling at the collar of her blouse to try to keep the icy wind from slipping down her neck.
“Everything always is with Mr. Stuart,” Jennings replied with a shake of his head. “He wants to know if it’s possible for you to finish your draft a few weeks early.”
“Early?” Beatrix said, hoping that the sound of the wind would drown out the panic in her voice.
“He’s considering publishing this one serially first,” Jennings explained. “To drum up even more excitement, you see. He’d like to show the opening chapters to the papers soon and get the bidding started.”
Beatrix’s hands were shaking now, so badly that she pulled them to her chest to pretend they’d grown cold.
Again, she was at a complete loss for words, unable to taste the barest whisper of an excuse on her tongue.
“Perhaps we could go inside,” Jennings said as his eyes settled on Beatrix’s trembling shoulders. “And get you out of this cold.”
“No,” Beatrix gasped, so quickly that the sound of it echoed against the bricks.
She couldn’t let him see her like this, crumbling from within just like all those pages scattered across the dusty floor, the spines that they’d been clinging to having lost the strength they needed to hold everything together.
And what if he saw her notebook splayed across the desk and the white crispness of the paper revealed her secret?
“But it’s freezing out here,” Jennings insisted, his expression growing more concerned as he watched her lips, which she knew must be turning a light shade of blue.
“I’m sorry, Jennings,” Beatrix said as she shook her head and began to step back through the threshold. “But I’m in the middle of a chapter. I really can’t afford to be distracted.”
His smile faded then, the sight of it causing Beatrix’s chest to tighten even worse than it did whenever she stepped onto the street and drew in an unexpected breath of frosty air.
“Very well,” he murmured, his boots crunching against the freshly fallen snow as he started to move away from the door. “I’ll tell Mr. Stuart that you need more time to think it over.”
“Yes,” Beatrix murmured, resisting the urge to set aside her worries and let him inside. “Thank you. I’m sorry I can’t give him an answer right now.”
She wanted to apologize for more than that, but the feelings that were brimming to the surface just wouldn’t string into coherent sentences.
“I did bring you something,” Jennings said as he reached into the pocket of his coat, his movements more hesitant than they had been the other day when he’d presented her with the book. “But I’m afraid it’s rather worse for wear now.”
At first, Beatrix was only aware of a flash of red against snow, but then she leaned a bit closer and saw that Jennings was holding a carnation, its petals bent from rubbing against the cloth of his pocket but still vibrant nonetheless.
