The Editor

By Kay Solo

Emilia Stark never thought she'd become a celebrity by editing books, but she also never thought she'd be using magic to do it. Her clients' success, coupled with her own mysterious nature, have brought her nationwide attention as well as a waiting list that has some hopeful authors waiting years. Despite her fame, her methods are kept safe by the curious fact that every writer who has tried to expose her secret to the world has found themselves suddenly unable to speak.

Outside her work, Emilia's biggest challenge is putting herself through school, where she gets into frequent arguments with the fictional characters in her reading assignments. She also struggles to manage her relationship with her opinionated former tutor, a man named Alexander Fox whose constant experimenting with magic trapped him forever inside a college-ruled notebook.

Emilia's fame has brought her adversaries, most of whom are determined to figure out her secret at all costs, and most of whom she completely ignores. But when other people with magical abilities start disappearing around the world and threatening notes start appearing on her doorstep, Emilia begins to worry — especially once she realizes she is the final target.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kay Solo
• Release date: Jun 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9798201859350

Book preview

The Editor

THE EDITOR

KAY SOLO

Copyright © 2019 by Kay Solo

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover Art by CL Smith

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

About the Author

sonder

n. The realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries, and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.

—The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

1

An elf, a human, and a dwarf walked into a bar.

It was almost like the start of a joke, Emilia Stark thought, but one that had run itself ragged from overuse. Everyone wanted an elf, a human, and a dwarf these days, and they were all the same. That was pop culture for you. It was easy to tell what was popular at any point in history given the almost insulting saturation of particular tropes. At least vampires were out.

Emilia sat in silence as the three others sat down at her table. She was dressed in a plain black t-shirt, light coat, and blue jeans, which contrasted fiercely with their armor and impressive display of weapons, but they seemed not to notice her at all. Her dark brown hair fell just past her shoulders, and it matched her intense dark brown eyes that were currently focused on the characters before her. On the table in front of her was a thin red pen and an open flimsy binder that contained a few hundred pages of double-spaced print.

Beside her was a man in his early thirties dressed in a button-down shirt and black slacks, complemented by a pair of frameless glasses. He leaned forward to catch the trio’s every word, his face mere feet from theirs, but despite their obvious attempts to keep their conversation only to themselves, they didn’t seem to notice him, either.

So it’s come to this, the human muttered.

Never thought I’d see the day, the dwarf replied, shaking his head. The prince was actually killed. There go any hopes of securing the kingdom now, I don’t care what anyone says.

Indeed. Our enemy’s forces will no doubt take advantage of this chaos; it is a shame the forces of men are so easily shattered, the elf remarked.

The human shot the elf a dark look.

And what is it exactly your people have done, eh? You’re always late to the party, all of you. You show up just early enough to make it look like you want to help, but just late enough so that you don’t lose anyone. Ain’t that right, Norik?

The dwarf only grunted, but looked almost sympathetically at the elf.

Beside Emilia, the man with the glasses looked at her hopefully, a small smile on his face, but she didn’t meet his eye and didn’t say a word. Instead she scribbled notes onto the current page in the binder, focusing attentively on the conversation.

Your politics has prevented us from ever getting too close, and now that you are suddenly in danger, you want us to assist you. Your desires change quickly and your patience is short; it’s a wonder we’re able to avoid being late for everything, the elf replied calmly.

He’s got a point, Norik said. Sometimes you humans’ patience is shorter than my old gran.

The man with glasses once again looked at Emilia, but his smile faltered as she once again ignored him.

Be that as it may, we’re out there fighting and dying for this world even as the one thing we thought was safe is now gone. I wouldn’t think it’s a lot to ask that everyone else join us, the human continued.

Many of us have been fighting this war much longer than you’ve been alive. I would go so far as to say I have been involved longer than your family line has existed.

The elf, human, and dwarf started arguing amongst themselves, and Emilia found her attention waning. She scribbled a few more notes on the page, then looked over at the man with the glasses, who was now watching the dispute before him with great interest. He frowned.

Can we pause just for a moment? he asked Emilia quietly.

Emilia nodded—and silence fell.

It was as though the world had frozen for all but Emilia and the man next to her. The human was halfway through lifting his glass angrily, and the droplets of wine that had only moments before threatened to stain whatever they landed on now hovered motionlessly in midair. The dwarf was halfway out of his seat, his eyes on the glass, his arm outstretched to pull the human back. The elf remained calmly in place, the only one to look as though he could just be sitting still rather than locked in time.

Is everything all right Mr. Jameson? Emilia asked.

Now that I hear some of those lines spoken, they don’t seem quite as clever as I thought they were, the man said, putting down his own pen. I tried reading it aloud but it’s just not the same.

It rarely is, Emilia replied simply. Are we ready to continue?

Yes, please.

Emilia didn’t move, but suddenly the room was filled with the sounds of shouting again. The dwarf fell short in his valiant leap to restrain his human friend, instead landing face first in a bowl of soup. The droplets of wine from the human’s glass seemed to remember gravity once again and splattered the elf’s clothing, and the arguing continued.

Emilia pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting to stay awake. She knew she should have canceled today’s appointment. These sessions always exhausted her, and she was doing them more often than usual lately. The winter holidays were only a few weeks away, the Northeast cold was starting to move in, and she wanted at least a little time off.

She shook her head to regain her focus, then turned back to the scene in front of her. But she had seen it play at least a dozen times before, and if she had to be frank, it hadn’t changed all that much since the first time she saw it. This was going to be one of those projects.

Listen, both of ye, the dwarf continued, we haven’t got time for this. Evil is working its way through our ranks while your arguing, and now it’s reached the royal—

Emilia held up her pointer finger and twirled it lazily in a circle as though she were stirring a drink. The scene in front of her suddenly played in reverse until she rested her hand on the table again.

—through our ranks while your arguing, and now—

Emilia frowned and made another mark on the page in front of her. She was getting sloppy; she was supposed to have been done with the grammar weeks ago. In her defense, she thought, she was tired. This was her last appointment of the day, and with everyone trying to write a fantasy epic these days, everything she was currently working on was long and purposefully tedious. If people were going to try to emulate the flowery, heavy language of authors like Tolkien, they could at least try to make it sound half as good. What she wouldn’t give for a young adult romance right about now.

Luckily, only a few minutes later, Emilia’s phone beeped. She took it out of her pocket and silenced it, and the room once again fell quiet as everything paused.

Time’s up already? It seems to go faster every time! Mr. Jameson commented, standing up from the table and stretching. How was it this time? Better, right?

Emilia sighed, and finally looked up at him.

Your improvements are there, but… marginal. I’ll give you my critique in a moment, but this process is just as much for you as it is for me. What did you notice?

I, er… Mr. Jameson started, looking away from Emilia’s steady gaze. I suppose the argument still seems a little forced. I just want to provide background, you know? I’ve rewritten this scene four times and I can’t think of any other way to give the reader this information. They need to understand that there’s tension between—

"I understand your goal, but you’ve moved beyond simple incluing and into heavy-handed exposition. Rather than the necessary information just so happening to be a part of the conversation, you’ve created the conversation for the sole purpose of informing the reader. The reason it seems forced and artificial is because those three gentleman are having a discussion for the benefit of someone who, to them, does not exist."

I suppose, but then how do I—?

Be patient. This scene takes place not even a quarter of the way through your book and you want everything to be explained. You’re trying to describe an entire history of an entire world; give yourself more than one page to do that. Let the reader catch some hints of dissatisfaction that at first seem to be directed just at one character or another, but then slowly reveal themselves to have deeper roots. In other areas, start to explain the politics of your characters, but don’t connect anything yet.

Why not? If the readers don’t know anything, then how are they supposed—?

Think of your story like a puzzle. You want to start putting everything together, but not all in the same place. Give them only a glimpse at a time so they’re left wondering what the big picture looks like. Then, when the timing is right, put down the final piece, and suddenly everything will be connected. Don’t mistake a lack of information for being a dull read. Give them hints and they’ll want to stay for the grand finale, but give them everything up front and there’s nothing left for them to stick around for.

What can I do to fix this scene, then? Mr. Jameson asked, and he looked slightly relieved at having finally finished a sentence.

Try to make it sound less like it’s the single conversation that will fix everything and choose a single topic for them to talk about. Make your point to write a realistic conversation, not to convey information.

Mr. Jameson scribbled hurriedly in a small notepad he pulled from his pocket, nodding as he did so. Emilia waited patiently for him to finish, then waited for the question that always came next.

Did you notice anything else?

You still need to work on developing an individual voice for each of your characters. If you don’t establish who says what, they all end up sounding the same. Also, be careful of using colloquialisms like ‘late to the party’ which may not be appropriate for the time period you’ve established. Try to be consistent with the way your characters speak; the dwarf suddenly talking about his ‘old gran’ is unlike him and breaks immersion, and I’ve never heard the human say ‘ain’t’ until now. It sounds strange with his accent anyway. Finally, if you must have a fight break out between them, lead into it a little more. They’ve been traveling together for weeks; there’s no reason they should only now start a fight after only three lines.

Mr. Jameson frantically tried to jot everything down, looking quite overwhelmed and almost hopeless, and Emilia smiled faintly. She couldn’t help it. It was one of the many small pleasures she took from this job. It wasn’t out of malice, of course, but she had to admit the elf in this story had a point about the patience of humans. Or, at the very least, about her. It wasn’t the books that frustrated her. It was their writers. They expected her to be a miracle worker.

To be fair, she thought, she basically was. If readers could only see the state of their favorite books when they first arrived on her desk.

Emilia looked up as Mr. Jameson flipped over the cover on his notepad and put it back in his pocket, looking thoroughly defeated.

Try not to worry, Emilia said, her tone softening slightly. We’re in the final stretch, and this is the hardest part. It will be worth it when you’re finally holding your first copy in your hands, trust me.

I hope so, Mr. Jameson said wearily. Say, have you ever… has there ever been a book that was just so…?

He trailed off, but Emilia knew what he meant.

Never. Everyone has a voice; sometimes they just need help finding it. Being a writer isn’t all about putting words on a page in the right order. That comes last. First come the ideas and the ability to mold those ideas into something beautiful. I can take your words and change them to make them sound better, but I can’t create your ideas. That’s all you. I’m just here to take what you already have and polish it a little. I accepted your project, and that means I see all it can possibly be. You have nothing to worry about.

Mr. Jameson looked somewhat comforted, and Emilia gave him a reassuring smile. This job wasn’t all bad. It was worth it for her, too. Other people’s happiness had a habit of rubbing off on her, and that was part of why she enjoyed her work so much.

Are you ready? Emilia asked, and Mr. Jameson nodded.

Emilia picked up her own binder, glanced once more around the room, then placed her hand lightly on Mr. Jameson’s arm. The room around them and everything in it faded into a blur, and there came a great rushing sound as though they were standing in a narrow wind tunnel.

A moment later, Emilia and her client stood in a very different room. It was small and untidy, but quite cozy. An old wooden desk sat underneath the room’s only window, and every wall was hidden by bookshelves that were clearly insufficient for the sheer number of books in the room; because of this, stacks and stacks of books covered the floor to the point where there was only a small path from the desk to the front room. From what Emilia could see through the small dusty window in the front room, it was already dark outside.

This was the office Emilia had worked in for several years now, and while it looked like the forgotten storage room of an old library, she positively loved everything about it.

See you again soon? Mr. Jameson asked. It took a few moments for her to register what he meant, and she nodded. Great. Thank you so much. I feel like we’ve been over this a thousand times already, but I do feel like it’s paying off.

That’s good! Emilia replied encouragingly, handing the binder to Mr. Jameson. He took it, looking slightly awestruck, and tucked it under his arm. We’ve hit the fine-tuning point. If you can work on anything this week, figure out the layout for those troublesome scenes. Once we nail down those final parts I can look them over, give your book one final sweep, and then we’re finished.

Mr. Jameson thanked her again, then left, closing the door quietly behind him.

Emilia slumped down on the floor, her back against the door. She was so tired. Using her gift too often exhausted her. On top of working longer hours than usual, it was the middle of the week, which was when she typically felt at her worst. She already tired easily and rarely slept well, and everything combined quickly took its toll on her. As her stomach growled, she remembered she hadn’t eaten yet that day, either. That was also common.

But she had a reputation to keep. She had built a name for herself around her success, and if she missed a few meals and a few hours of sleep here and there to keep it, then that’s how it was going to have to be. It was typically the authors that achieved fame and fortune through their work, but the fact that every one of Emilia’s clients had become a bestseller after working with her—combined with the fact that every one of them was also sworn to secrecy—had made her something of a celebrity herself within the industry. She wasn’t as well-known a name as some of the more famous authors, but she was popular amongst readers, hopeful authors, and other professionals. The fact that she was only twenty years old didn’t hurt.

But it wasn’t all for good reasons, of course. Along with her incredible success and glowing reviews from people she’d worked with—most of whom had gone on to become repeated successes and household names—she shared absolutely nothing about how she worked, and there was a very long list of people who were very bitter about it. An actual list. She had seen it online.

There had been a few writers whose fame got to their heads and who had thought it’d be an excellent idea to expose Emilia’s secret to the world in exchange for even more fame. They all evidently thought they were the very first to come up with this grand idea, but they were also usually the ones who signed Emilia’s contracts without reading them. And then when their lips snapped shut on live television, or when their hands fell limp when trying to write down the details of their experiences, suddenly they cared about what Emilia had done. But there was no malice to this; it was merely a side effect of the unusual methods Emilia employed to do her work.

Her stomach growled again, and she sighed. It was Wednesday, which meant the weekend was close enough to taunt her with its prospects of guilt-free rest and relaxation, but her apartment was also a mile away, and right now she felt too weak to stand. She pulled out her phone with the idea in mind to have something delivered to her office so she could gain enough strength to make it back home, but groaned as she realized her phone was almost out of battery. Sleeping in a proper bed and eating anything at all would have to wait, apparently.

She pulled herself to a corner of the room with enough floor space in between piles of books to allow a semi-comfortable position, rolled up her coat to serve as a makeshift pillow, and fell asleep within moments.

2

The winter night was cold, and without a blanket or any source of heat, Emilia slept fitfully. What few dreams she had were strange and frightening, and she frequently awoke disoriented and nervous before remembering where she was.

As sunlight began filtering through the window, Emilia moaned. She had hardly slept at all; if anything, she felt worse than she did the night before. If she didn’t get some decent sleep soon, she was going to start hallucinating again.

Sure enough, she awoke again near eight to see a breakfast sandwich hovering just under her nose.

Ugh. Away, beguiling burger, Emilia grunted, turning over onto her other side. This hallucination was a good one. She could even smell the sandwich. She wouldn’t normally mind—it was better than her usual hallucinations that involved spiders leaping at her from the ceiling—but she was hungry and her brain was just being mean now.

Don’t be ridiculous. You love these.

Emilia’s eyes snapped open, and she sat bolt upright. Another person was in the room with her, and they were no hallucination. And if they were real, that meant…

Give, Emilia said simply, and the breakfast sandwich found its way into her hand. She ate quickly, closing her eyes with joy at the taste of questionable meats and lukewarm cheese. Just the way she liked them.

Slow down or you’ll give yourself a stomachache. I brought more, so don’t rush.

Halfway through her second sandwich, Emilia finally managed to pull her face away from her food long enough to ask, Not that I might the free breakfast, but what are you doing here, Jordan?

Jordan Lacroze was the picture of friendliness, with kind bright blue eyes and straight dark hair that swept gently over their face. Today they wore a maroon jacket and knitted grey hat that they had pulled down completely over their ears, as well as a pair of purposefully mismatched socks. Their smile exuded joy with a hint of mischief, and had a habit of catching the romantic attention of everyone within a three-mile radius.

Saving you from yourself again, from the looks of it, Jordan commented, looking her up and down. Lying in your cold office on the floor with no blankets, and you look like you haven’t eaten or slept properly in days.

That’s what it feels like, Emilia said, reaching for the third sandwich. There was no hiding anything from them, and she wasn’t going to try. I tried to order some food but my phone died.

I noticed when I tried calling this morning. How was work?

Emilia sighed heavily and shook her head. Jordan laughed and draped their coat around her shoulders. Emilia nodded gratefully. She would have to get a heater installed here eventually.

Thanks, she said after the last sandwich had been successfully decimated. I owe you one.

More like six, for all the times I’ve come here to rescue you, but I’m not keeping count. I’m only too happy to help my lady fair.

How does your lady fair look after sleeping on the floor and stuffing her face with fast food?

Like a hot mess. I brought the car, though, so no one will actually have to see you.

Valiant steed and all, huh? My brave rescuer.

‘Valiant’ is being generous. I had to punch the dash to get the speedometer to work this morning, but now my RPMs are in the negative. I’m not sure what that means, but I don’t think the needle is supposed to bend that way. Anyway, let’s get moving; I don’t want to leave her engine off for too long. Can you stand?

Emilia winced as Jordan helped her to her feet. She couldn’t even be upset, seeing as how this was all her fault. That, of course, made her upset.

I’m not just here for altruistic reasons, though, Jordan continued as they walked her out to the car.

Emilia raised an eyebrow.

That doesn’t sound good.

Don’t worry; it’s not for anything you didn’t already agree to.

Emilia paused for a moment to think, then glared at Jordan.

Oh no. Not today. I can’t.

You’re not going to put off our study session a third time, and you’re lucky I’m not asking you to go to school today. You skip class so often you’ve probably forgotten, but our math exam is on Monday morning. I need your help with my essay, too.

Emilia reluctantly settled herself in the passenger seat and put on her seatbelt, struggling with the long sleeves of Jordan’s oversized coat. She gave Jordan a pouty face as they stepped in, which they completely ignored.

I don’t understand what I need all this math for, anyway. I’m taking more math classes than English ones, and English is my major! The only reason I’d need to go up to calculus for my job as an editor is if I were editing math books, and I’d rather do the world a favor by setting them all on fire—

"You’re taking so many math classes because you had to start low. Because you’re not good at math. Because you never study. Here; eat some chocolate and focus on not complaining until we get home," Jordan said sternly as they handed her the remnants of a chocolate bar.

A few minutes later they pulled up to an ornate black gate next to a small guard post. Beyond the gate were rows and rows of tightly clustered luxury apartment buildings surrounded by immaculately kept lawns and trees. The buildings themselves were clean and new but painted drab beiges and pastel colors in the way all new buildings were—the counterparts to every McMansion of suburbia that exuded airs of equal parts wealth and bad taste.

Jordan didn’t even need to roll down the window as they approached; the guard within the booth waved them on as they drove up, and they proceeded into the complex. Jordan had been to Emilia’s home so many times by now that they were recognized more often than half the tenants. At least, that was Jordan’s theory. Emilia thought it more likely everyone recognized Jordan’s car; the rusted, squeaking, duct-taped vehicle was easily spotted among the range of expensive luxury and sports cars that filled the parking lots and garages of the complex.

Jordan turned the wheel hard to fit into a compact spot close to a nearby elevator, and the car responded with a shrill squeal that caused several nearby cats to leap up in terror and spring away. After the car shuddered and fell silent, Jordan stepped out, and before Emilia had even freed herself from her seat belt, they had opened the passenger door for her.

The trip to her third-floor apartment was arduous. Her work often left her too weak to take the stairs, but elevators always made her dizzy. In the past they had attempted another solution by way of Jordan giving Emilia a piggyback ride up the stairs, but Jordan nearly falling over backwards had led to that attempt being one of the most horrifying events of Emilia’s life, and so she resolved to use the elevator instead.

Once the key turned in the lock and Emilia opened the door, however, she breathed a heavy sigh of relief. This was more like it.

The interior of the apartment was tastefully designed, as modern and minimalistic as could be, but was the perfect example of unnecessarily expensive. It was the kind of place one would expect someone who had only just recently come into large amounts of money to own, and Emilia was just such a person. Unaccustomed to wealth of the kind her job now provided her, the only way she knew how to use money was to spend it, and she took great pleasure in doing so.

There were two floors, though the second was more like a loft and only took up half the floor space; that left a wide vaulted ceiling for the rest with plenty of room for tall and elegant windows that let in plenty of natural light. The loft was sparsely furnished, given Emilia’s aversion to stairs. A massive flat-screen television hung on the largest wall of the main room above an electric fireplace facing the door, and a short hall extended on either side, each leading to one bathroom and bedroom. To the left of the door was a kitchen large enough to fit a small island in it, and to the right was the narrow staircase that led to the loft. Against the wall near the stairs was a plush suede couch, and its accompanying love seat was nearby. Both faced a sleek glass and black metal table in the center of the room. Beneath one of the tables in a corner of the room was a robotic vacuum, and in the other corner an electric trash can that opened automatically when anyone came close enough.

The rest of the room was a better example of Emilia’s personal tastes. Several stuffed animals from various video games were carefully placed on the couch, each positioned so that they had a proper view of the television. On the walls hung several swords and other props from some of Emilia’s favorite book and movie franchises, like The Lord of the Rings, Game of Thrones, Dune, Alien, and Firefly. She had also managed to collect a replica of every single wand from Harry Potter, which hung on racks on either side of the television. Finally, various figures and statues from conventions and overpriced collector’s editions of a wide variety of media sat on tabletops and pillars, meticulously dusted and precisely positioned.

Entirely absent from the room, however, were books. Not a single book was visible anywhere from the front door. Despite this, there were upwards of a few thousand books in the apartment. There were benefits to being the single occupant of a two-bedroom home, and having space for a personal library ranked high among them.

I’m going to clean up and then we can get started if we absolutely must, Emilia said, already starting toward the bathroom. On her way she stopped to plug her phone in where its cord sat on a table next to the couch. Help yourself to anything you want while you wait!

Already on it, came Jordan’s muffled reply as they spoke through a mouthful of a cranberry muffin they had taken from a plastic container on the island counter.

Fifteen minutes later, feeling very much refreshed, Emilia walked slowly out into the main room and slumped onto the couch. Her sleep the previous night had not been good for her, and she knew she was liable to fall asleep if left unattended for a minute at most. Fortunately or unfortunately for her, Jordan was well aware of this, and they pulled her up into a sitting position.

You look much better! I’m glad. Now, what do you say you look over my paper? I need to see if I got my analysis right.

Why are you asking me for analytical help? Analysis of fiction is entirely subjective, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, Emilia grumbled. Besides, it’ll be hard to double check anything at the moment; Jane is furious with me.

Still? Jordan asked in surprise. When Emilia nodded, they continued, Well, I can’t say I blame her completely. That’s what you get for going into her story to say such horrible things about Mr. Rochester to her face. Anyway, you know the story well enough to tell me if I’m on the right track.

I just feel strongly about some of her life choices. But fine. Give it to me and I’ll mark it up for you.

You’re a doll, Jordan responded with a grin as Emilia took up her red pen from a vase full of writing utensils nearby. Say, you talk to Alex lately?

Not for a few days. Whenever I try to talk to him about anything it always comes back to him telling me off for skipping so much class. It doesn’t matter that I’m doing so well with work. He always goes off about the benefits of pursuing a well-rounded education and growing as a human being and nonsense like that.

He’s really bright, you know? You should listen to him. Besides, if you keep him locked in your second bedroom for too long he’s going to get very lonely.

Jordan, I’m sleep deprived and have nothing but math to look forward to today, so your guilt trips can wait, Emilia said, and then the faintest hint of a smile flickered across her face. Though if this is your finished paper, we might not even get as far as guilt trips; this is atrocious.

Jordan glanced over at the paper, and their eyes widened.

How is there already so much red? It’s like a murder scene!

You have no clear thesis statement, your grammar is all sorts of awful, and I’m thinking we might actually save time if I rewrite this from scratch. But your ideas themselves are actually really good, as usual. If you could get the grammar and style down you really wouldn’t need me.

I’m having regrets already, Jordan said glumly, and Emilia put down her pen long enough to give them a tight hug.

I make a living by tearing people’s written work apart. You have no one to blame but yourself. But your essay will probably get put up on the wall again with full marks.

Probably. The looks of jealously I get from everyone else when they realize the famous Emilia Stark is helping me also don’t hurt, Jordan grinned.

Envy. Not jealousy. Er, sorry, Emilia said, then giggled as Jordan took several swipes at her with one of the couch pillows.

With English soon finished and Jordan’s ego sufficiently bruised, they moved on to their other subjects. The day passed slowly for Emilia, whose fatigue was doing her no favors. She was even starting to admit that Alex, her old tutor, may have had a point about skipping class so much; most of their review consisted of catching her up with everything she had missed, and she fought the anxiety welling within her at the sheer amount of material she didn’t recognize.

But Jordan was patient and optimistic. Their very presence calmed Emilia like no one else could, and so they slowly made their way through everything they needed for the upcoming week. Together, despite Emilia’s educational apathy, they made a well-rounded team, which was why they had chosen to continue their higher education together as they pursued their respective degrees. They had both started on their master’s degrees the semester before and found that they were still at a point where they could do much of their work together.

With this in mind, it was sometimes hard to reconcile Emilia’s tendency to be a workaholic when it came to her editing and her almost total apathy when it came to school. She would never tell Jordan, but she felt like she had done enough. She didn’t want to go anymore. But Jordan was like her parents in that they believed a degree was almost necessary for success. It was what everyone did, and Jordan and Emilia’s parents alike were evidently not ones to question tradition.

But then, Jordan seemed to genuinely enjoy school, whereas Emilia had come to dread it. It exhausted her, stressed her out, and seemed more and more pointless as time went on. Emilia loved her work instead, and wished that could be enough. But as close as the two friends were, Emilia felt she could never tell them. This was one of those things Jordan felt strongly about and Emilia didn’t want to test it, even if their constant pushing sometimes frustrated her. And so, for now, she could at least humor them.

As the sun began to set, Emilia and Jordan finally closed their textbooks and notebooks and sat back on the couch with simultaneous sighs of relief and exhaustion. Their stomachs had been growling for the past half hour, and eventually even the ever-studious Jordan admitted they’d had enough for one day.

Do you want anything to eat? Dinner’s on me, Emilia offered, but Jordan shook their head.

"I should get back. I want to get to bed at a decent hour, and I’ll probably need an hour to fix the essay you mangled."

That’s fair. Hey… you know I love you, right? Emilia continued.

Absolutely. And right back 'atcha. I may tease, but you really help me out. I’d rather you go hard on me than tell me my stuff is okay when it’s not.

With that, Jordan stood and held out their hand to help Emilia to her feet. She walked them to the door, and they shared a tight hug.

Do you need anything else before I go? Help getting to bed, cleaning up, anything? Jordan asked.

Emilia smiled warmly.

I’m fine. I’ll just order some food then get to sleep. Besides, if you do much more for me you might as well just move in with me.

You know I would. And I imagine you’d pay me well if I was your assistant.

I would. All the love and affection you could possibly want.

Love and affection don’t pay the bills, and Camilla needs some serious repairs if I’m going to drive her much longer.

Emilia raised her eyebrow incredulously.

"You spent a year and a half thinking of a name and you picked Carmilla?"

Yeah! I mean, it starts with ‘car,’ and she’s good at picking up ladies. As for the blood-sucking bit, well, I still can’t find the razor I dropped in the back seat, so just be careful, that’s all I’m saying.

You’re such a nerd.

You’re one to talk. You’ve literally got Gandalf’s staff hanging on the wall behind you, which is relevant, because you know what he’d have to say about your upcoming math test if he found out you haven’t been studying—

"Don’t you dare, Emilia said, trying and failing to throw them a serious glare. She opened the door, then playfully pushed Jordan outside. Drive safe. And let me know when you get home, please?"

Will do. I’ll shoot you a text when I’m on my way over tomorrow morning, too, Jordan said with their signature grin. At Emilia’s disappointed look, they continued, I’m not going to let you skip again! It’ll be worth it, trust me.

Fine, fine.

With a final wave, Jordan turned toward the stairs, and Emilia closed the door behind them. She sighed and walked slowly back toward the couch, picking up her phone on