The Last Writer Adriane Leigh (story reading TXT) 📖

big fireplace that was caked in dust. I bet it used to be the library, but now I’ve commandeered it.”

“Are there any books?” I asked, but didn’t need an answer when she swept one of the doors across from the kitchen open to reveal a formal office, in ruins. “Whoa.”

“The books are useless, they're so musty, we should have a big bonfire in the garden.”

“And burn them? We couldn’t, Father would have a fit.”

She huffed. “I hardly remember what that means.”

“What? The fit or Father?” I meant it as a joke, but her eyes glazed with a mix of something close to annoyance.

“Both.” She cleared her throat and sat behind the polished wood desk, the only piece of furniture in the room.

I pushed a stack of notebooks to the side and leaned against the desk. “I kind of miss him.”

“Why? You hardly saw him.”

I shrugged. “The twins must miss him.”

She sighed, rifling through her printed pages. “They ask for him every night, I tell them he’s busy with his precious books. If he wants to be here, he’s welcome.”

“He works seven days a week.”

“Don’t defend him, he abandoned this family.”

“Didn’t we leave him?”

“For fresh air and good health, we sure did. He could visit.”

I let her words linger. We both knew he couldn’t. His contract only allowed him Sundays off, and one day wasn’t enough time to get to Shelter Island and back on the ferry and spend any time with us.

Not that Mother wanted that.

“So, what are you showing this fancy literary agent?”

Mother’s eyes twinkled as she held me a singular sheet. “It’s bold, maybe it’s a mistake, but I think it will make my book stand out.”

I took the sheet from her, surprised to find only a simple stanza.

Ten little lilies lined up in the snow, one tumbled down to shattered bones

“This is...interesting.” I thought of Nate’s comments last night.

A horrible person would write a horrible story.

She nodded, cheering me on with pride. “Do you like it?”

“What’s it about exactly?”

“The book? Or the poem?”

“The seventh little lily ran to cliff’s edge, and the eighth little lily is already dead?” I recited the next line.

“Oh, I’m still working on that line. It doesn’t really rhyme, just a bit of creative license required there.” She took the page back from me, tucking it back in its place and then tucking the stack of printed papers into a manilla envelope and sliding it into a drawer.

She made a show of locking it with a tiny skeleton key that she deposited in the pocket of her black skirt.

“I think it sounds lovely.” I could hear the bright chime in my tone, fake to my ears, but her eyes shone.

“Really?”

I nodded, smiling brightly. “I think the rhyme is perfect as is, almost like a song.”

“I wanted it to sound like a song when I wrote it!”

I nodded. “I can tell, it works. I wouldn’t change a thing.” I leaned closer, like I had a secret. “Truman Capote’s agent would be nuts not to want this.”

“You think? I think it would be perfect on screen, I can see it play out in my head with the garden and the little kids that—” She paused, as if catching herself before straightening her skirts as she stood to her full height.

The familiar coldness I was used to returned before she smiled thinly. “Thank you for reading it, dear. I don’t want to share any more at this time, but I have a very good feeling that this book is about to change both of our lives.”

I didn’t reply, only watched her stroke her misguided ego.

“I’m so excited for you.”

She smiled again, ushering me out of her office gently. “I’m just going to practice my pitch for the agent, you can start your geography lessons without me, can’t you?”

I nodded, a question on my lips before I bit it back. “Yes.”

“Good girl.” She smiled. “I’m so lucky to have you, Zara.”

I nodded, a threat crammed in my throat as I backed away, rotten smiles all over my lips. “Good luck at your meeting.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

The solid thunk of the door closing was her goodbye.

I turned, spinning down the hallway and straight out of the front doors, wishing I could rewind the last ten minutes.

I couldn't wait to tell Nate what I’d read, he’d have a field day. I couldn't wait to laugh with someone about my latest discovery. He’d call me Sherlock, and I’d fall a little harder for the boy that’d swept in and stole my thoughts the last few weeks.

I sped down the chipped cement steps of Usher, fingers of ivy pulling at the skirt of my dress as I took the path down the garden hedge and slipped through the rusted iron gates. The gate creaking loudly woke a pair of blackbirds. They spun around my head twittering, used to the pocket of seed I’d been bringing them each morning since our first introduction.

“Sorry, my sweets.” I blew them a kiss, the toes of my leather oxfords slipping in the damp dew as I wound through the maze of rose bushes and finally came to the fountain.

The little blackbirds chirped riotously over my head as I stepped along the mossy stone path, fingers dragging along the pokey holly leaves. Giant rose-red blooms puffed open, filling the pathway along the fountain with the heavy musk of roses. I paused at the fountain when a tiny folded note caught my eye.

Thinking I must be seeing things, I climbed up the worn stone, my fingers sliding in the crack between the hooves of the centaur and the block of stone it sat atop.

It was a note, a creamy shade of lined paper folded over and over until it looked like nothing more than junk.

I thought of the cipher book he’d been carrying around lately. We’d passed it back and forth under the table at dinner a few times, leaving secret notes only each other could read. Mostly jokes and insults about the other kids, but sometimes more.

I