A Girl Made of Dreams and Words

By Laura Briggs

Fame, fortune, and unexpected partings offer Maisie new surprises in the sixth installment of the warm-hearted romance series.

As Maisie finishes the last chapters of the novel inspired by her and Sidney, she makes the impulsive decision to publish it independently, since the story's deeply-personal nature convinces her that it will never amount to anything. She never dared to imagine any chance that it would become one of the summer's hottest reads by accident when chance readers, turned ardent fans, spread word of it by social media.

Everything is changing quickly with her newfound success, and Maisie isn't prepared. Her best friend Molly is moving on in life -- and Alex is returning with changes of his own. A possible Norwegian career in publishing awaits him, and Maisie convinces herself she's fine with it. That is, until she meets the beautiful and sympathetic Ingra, Holbrech's daughter and Alex's former coworker, whom Adele adores.

In the midst of this, Maisie feels the call of crisis from her old friends at the hotel Cornwall more clearly than ever. The hotel's busiest season so far has overwhelmed staff, with a crowd from a Botswana business and arts conference on one side and the semifinals of an international poker tournament on the other. The former one brings Maisie a sense of kinship with a young Botswana writer, who shares her philosophies and perspective; the latter, however, brings a danger unlike anything its staff had faced before.

Unsure of Alex's destiny after months of change for both of them, and desperately yearning for clarity, Maisie finds she's the only one who can decide her next move for the future. Following her heart's present call, however, could cost her the one thing she so desperately wants in life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Briggs
• Release date: Jul 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215168691

Laura Briggs

Laura Briggs is the author of several feel-good romance reads, including the UK best-seller 'A Wedding in Cornwall'. She has a fondness for vintage style dresses (especially ones with polka dots), and reads everything from Jane Austen to modern day mysteries. When she's not writing, she enjoys spending time with family and friends, caring for her pets, gardening, and seeing the occasional movie or play.

Book preview

A Girl Made of Dreams and Words

By Laura Briggs

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2023 Laura Briggs

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Image: Rain on the way. Original art, Fashionable young girls by Filitovaand Floral Border" by Ellebell.Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/

Title Page: Autumn walk. Original art, Swirl frame by sjezica,Fashionable young girls by Filitova, and Cities skylines set. Flat landscapes vector illustration. London, Paris and New York cities skylines design with landmarks by Millena12.Used with permission. http://www.dreamstime.com/

For Gus

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Dear Readers,

Is she running away?

That's the question readers will be asking at a certain point in this book, because Maisie will ask it of herself — because it will feel to her as if she's been sucked back to that moment in Sidney's old shed years before, when she told him everything and ended up with nothing by her own fault.

It's more complicated than that, of course, which is why everything else happens first. First comes the novel that Maisie wrote, that tells the world — and Alex — exactly how intense their love was before the accident. Then comes Molly's departure, when she asks Maisie to look after their old friends at the Penmarrow, the broken-hearted Mr. Trelawney especially. Then comes Ingra, which is where Maisie's confidence that she is the one Alex is destined to love for a lifetime begins to falter a tiny bit.

Hold onto him. When the words of the psychic come back to Maisie once again, she's already made her choice. The reasons why, and what it actually means, both for her and Sidney, that's what the rest of this book will reveal. Writing it was a challenge, in light of everything else that was happening, to add more challenges and setbacks to Maisie's course, even though this novel's ending had been in the making the entire time.

But first, there are gamblers and thugs in need of dinner, a wolfish freelance journalist on the make for a big story, and a writer with a dilemma of character who needs a sympathetic listener who knows how his heroine feels. Echoes of scandal akin to Frank the detective and La Fleur the thief disturb the hotel, and a troubled young man is on the precipice of a decision that will compel the hotel's manager to take the ultimate risk.

You see what I mean.

The important thing to know is that all of it leads to one understanding: that, sometimes, the thing we fear the most is also the thing we most fear losing. Be it a chance, a person, a place in life that we will always regret if we let it slip from our hands. We hope for grace to rescue us from the consequences of any mistakes we made towards it, in emotion or cowardice; or keep us afloat in the aftermath of those situations. It all comes down to that for Maisie and everyone else, and one moment of revelation that will show us the outcome.

That's what makes all of its risk worthwhile, in life or in stories about the romanticized, fictitious ones like Maisie's own. As you read it, I hope you think so, too.

Prologue:

Writers begin their stories for different reasons, crafting them in different ways. Some writers spend decades on manuscripts, requiring a dozen drafts to feel complete for one project, requiring two or three for less-intense stories. Having once read an article about the novelist whose book still ranks number one for me, I knew that writers with a certain level of brilliance feel they do it right the first time. Then, leisurely and meticulously, their process corrects the gaps and errors over a period of re-reading pages.

Generally speaking, I am a dribs and drabs kind of writer — daubing at a canvas, creating a picture over time, with lots of corrections and re-thought elements along the way, my brush growing blobby with dried paint between sessions, other times running short of paint before its fingers ran out of energy. I think back to short stories of my childhood, with crossed-through paragraphs. Some, with unicorns drawn in the margins.

Not this time, however. When I said goodbye to Sidney on the train platform, the simmer of my imagination had become a drive of energy. I couldn't refuse it; it was strong enough to resist any impulse to tuck it away for later with a promise.

The morning after I came back from my all-too-brief holiday away to see him, I lay gazing at the ceiling, gradually shifting my vision to my tablet computer beside my bed. Reaching for it, I opened it to the last document I had typed — the idea for a story about us. My own fairytale, in many ways.

What if I tried it? I didn't ask myself this question directly. My fingers touched the keys, tentatively clicking them. A few experimental words, the beginning of a place and a time. I already sensed a person occupying it, taking on a fictitious breath within me.

My legs settled, crossed guru-fashion with my feet tucked beneath. My tablet computer gradually propped itself on a little throw pillow from the foot of my bed as I sought a comfortable position for the long stretch. The terrier Kip rolled over from where he had been sleeping beneath the trail of my bed's coverlet, lying on his back with shaggy paws flopping against his chest. He snuffled loudly, then watched me with his good eye, before sitting up to scratch himself and began trotting around the room, nuzzling for interesting things in its corners.

For the rest of the day, I was writing constantly, and for days afterwards. Seated underneath my gauzy canopy from the first alarm of the morning, into the late evening, then into the night. Curled to one side against my pillow bolster in the afternoon, my fingers didn't lag their stride, even when I was growing tired — out flat by nightfall, I was still chronicling what came to my brain, for the story unfolded steadily in complex stages, its characters familiar shades of life breathing through me.

Pausing to sleep, to eat yogurt from little cups or takeout from little paper containers, which Kip licked clean when I left them on the floor by my bed. Then I went back to it, driven by what was on the inside more than the outside.

The first three days of my summer holiday I had spent in Norway with Sidney, the only ones free before his internship was set to begin. For three days, he had shown me the city, the exterior of the publishing house where he was destined to be for the next three months, the interior of the small flat where he would live, which overlooked the port. He held my hand under the table of a small bakery, fingers laced close, where we tried a slice of a local holiday delicacy known as White Lady Cake, named for layers of decadent vanilla sponge assembled with loads of cream and strawberry.

Three weeks' holiday? I had asked, before my official time was marked off the hotel's schedule. I was dazzled by the riches of such free time — but confused by the number. But I'm only due two, Brigette.

Besides which, I had plans to space them out — a weekend during an upcoming book conference would give Sidney more free time from his internship — and a few days at Midsummer's Eve were marked out for him, where he promised we would do something glorious in a land of midnight sun. I had been hoping to persuade Dean to come along for that one, for whatever Sidney planned would be generous enough to be shared.

Mr. Trelawney's request, said Brigette, primly. He wishes everyone who remained dedicated to their staff roles during the pandemic to be rewarded with additional holiday time. The realization that we would be terribly busy in summer had not occurred at the time, obviously — this was before Juanita and Lou both decided to quit and reduce staff numbers. I have no idea what they were thinking. When will I possibly have time to interview new candidates with multiple staff holidays to schedule?

That's very generous of Mr. Trelawney, I said. Would Sidney take a free weekend and come down from Norway to Cornwall instead of London? Whilst I was sorting laundry and folding towels? Surely I could sneak away for one weekend. But what if I don't need three weeks? I had a sinking feeling that I was not going to win my case for extra freedom. Couldn't I trade the third one to have the other two spaced apart?

I realize that it's unorthodox — and unexpected — but I really do need all staff to be present for the summer rush, answered Brigette. The uptick in bookings has been rather dramatic as of late, not to mention the events on schedule. We're at risk of being double booked if we are not careful.

There was a note of pride beneath the anxious tone of her voice, as if in hidden delight for the sudden resurgence of the Penmarrow Hotel's glory days. Even if it turned out that she didn't need all of us to hop to it for these occasions, she would take no chances with regards to the hotel's reputation for service.

I'm dividing staff into three staggered blocks of holiday time, she continued. Currently, I have you penciled in for Block A, which means yours would begin as of next Monday. This will have everyone back fully in time for the summer rush. By then, of course, we should have staff numbers at their pre-pandemic fullness.

She paused. Will that suit? she asked, hopefully. As in, hopeful that the 'no staff holidays during the summer rush' could remain a request and not a mandate from the interim head of housekeeping.

In her mind, I knew she had already set this in stone despite phrasing it as a request. My arguing would only upset a row of dominoes that had undoubtedly been put into place with extreme attention to detail. Sure, I said, trying not to sigh audibly, merely on the inside.

So I went on vacation for three days only to Norway, then spent the rest of my free time with the manuscript pouring out of me. Its creativity was strictly personal, not something masses of readers would want, even if given the chance. A private tale of my own, pulling me above my own world, taking me to the burning hearts of memories and feelings that were scattered across my head. Emotions in memory had become like molecular stardust, as flexible as light, pushing new shafts to the world beneath my imagination's hand.

A girl with too much imagination blurring the boundaries with reality, so she lived in two separate worlds; a boy with a past filled with secrets, a heart that could not forget either them or her. To her, he had become a being made of unearthly materials: a magic that could only have fallen into place from the Universe's stray fragments of stardust and burning meteors, taking form before her wondering eyes. To him, she was an flesh and bone enigma, a human identity that could not quite be defined in reality or fantasy, even when she became his essential point of return.

I became the ghost my flatmate Imogene seldom glimpsed — except for the noise of hands typing, the closing of the refrigerator door, the fleeting figure in the hall en route to the rare shower that I remembered to take when I caught a break in my creative processes.

Kip kept me company on days when it was my turn to babysit him instead of Dean, taking naps at the end of my bed, and fetching balled-up pages of notes and doodles I sometimes made to play with my thoughts apart from the book's ongoing pages. For variety, he snuffled my collection of shoes for interesting smells, whining at the door a few times a day to remind me that walks were still essential for him.

In Norway, Sidney and I had cycled past the boats with bright sails moored in the harbor, and took the cable car to the mountain's top. We could see the city below, like a model train's miniatures, with splashes of bright colors from the simple but boldly-painted quaint architecture in the old town, bright gleams of glass and chrome from the commercial part of the city, where a construction crane was poised. The scent of pine and fir around us, pungent in the natural glen.

It's like being home again, in a way, isn't it? he said, as we gazed down at it, hand in hand, near the bluff's edge. He drew a deep breath, slowly.

He wasn't talking about London — or any physical similarities between this mountain bluff and still evergreen forest, where the only noise besides our voices and the tram was the birds. The spirit of this place resembled the Cornish haunts we once shared, like Drift Cove and the rough-hewn coastline, and the quiet little glen near the evergreen wood where we cut holly for Christmas. Places he had not seen in more than a year, at least for some of them.

Would he ever go back? I thought of Cornwall, not England in general; here we were, standing on a cliff in another country, where he was supposed to stay for a quarter of the year, and where he might be asked to stay longer if all went well. He might be taking a different sort of leap from a future metaphorical point, I realized. Far from any heath-spotted fields and wooded glens of our time, which would only fade even further into the recesses of his mind.

My fingers tightened around his, denying it.

The floor by my bed had collected half the teacups and coffee mugs from my and Imogene's cupboards, in a state of unwash, with various levels of tea long cold in the bottoms, along with a half pint of orange dream gelato that Kip was licking the last spoonfuls from. My eyes were glued to the screen of my tablet, in between intensity and uncertainty. A brief lull before the words would descend.

'Listening, Claire could not help but stare into his eyes, catching them between ordinary wanderings, to watch the changes. The shade varied from stage to stage. The changes were not classified in her memory banks by color but emotion. Quizzical brown, contented cinnamon, brooding coffee. Spectrum of feelings from mild to mixed storms.'

Postcards from Sidney on the box I used as a bedside table, a half-finished letter to him on my dressing table by the window. Words and more words, these blending the innocuous with a deeper portent of feeling. A very Alex-like turn of phrase in his that I did not expect — it had a very distinct nuance from what he would have chosen to say a few years ago.

Emails, phone calls, bits of news caught up about the manuscripts he tweaked to be more English for the publisher, and the things Kip and I saw on our daily walks. Nothing at all, but important nothings. It was the difference, the one between only thinking of a person and having them captured on paper. It had something of his essence breathed into it, the words written on his cards, which fed the constant thought of him running in the background of my mind.

We chatted on video calls, but seldom exchanged phone calls. Something about the awkward silence in space didn't suit either of us. We didn't force it. Video calls ended all too soon — the wifi signal in Sidney's neighborhood remained unreliable.

I kept the same black and white photo of him pinned to the side of the mirror above my bathroom sink, where it had been clipped some months ago on impulse. I looked up at it daily whenever I brushed my teeth, or swept my hair back with some convenient clips, in one of my rare personal care pauses in the storm of writing. The picture was taken in Cornwall, cropped to showcase him alone, his face.

It was an old photo now, before the accident which changed his smile into a different one, following those idyllic days. From time to time, I laid a kiss on it with my fingers, against the gloss of the photo paper, wishing for the time when I could give him one for real.

A Girl Made of Dreams and Words

by

Laura Briggs

Chapter One

Brigette let me have a fourth week unpaid leave, which I spent rough-drafting the final chapters of my mad summer's novel. My brain had been conditioned enough by this creative exercise that it was already pondering an outline for the princess and bubble fairytale — a plot from my adolescent imaginings that I was dusting off, seeing new potential again.

I told my agent Arnold it would be the next concept I pitched to my editor at Sunshadow, just to excite his interest, even if it wasn't the mystery novel he'd been hinting for me to write the past few months. A detective looking for the mystery in myths had never become a vision I could turn into a manuscript, despite his hints and my halfhearted efforts to open the shutters of my mind and see if that idea would grow its own wings.

At the end of the week, Molly came to visit me in London, just after having dropped her own personal bombshell — that of giving two weeks' notice at the Penmarrow. The decision had come abruptly, although the tide had been rolling steadily forwards in her life with each new step forward in her relationship with George. Now she would be living in a Welsh village near the astronomical observatory, the one where her formerly long-distance boyfriend had been working for the past few years.

You don't have to move out for the weekend, I said to Imogene. Molly will only be here for three or four days. She had to wait for her friend to move some stuff in their flat in Tonteg, which is when I have to go back to the hotel anyway.

I glanced towards Molly, who stood shyly between the doorway and sofa. You could hang with us, I added — imagining, but not seeing the face that Imogene surely made for this suggestion. We're not doing anything special, just ordering pizza and watching movies and stuff.

"I brought Love, Rosie on DVD," said Molly.

Imogene pulled a pair of tie-dyed tights and a designer top from the laundry basket. Look, I'll put up with the dog now and again, but having you and your friend nattering away at three in the morning for a sleepover party is too much for me, so full stop no thanks, she answered.

Kip's ears flattened as he lay underneath our living room chair.

I promise that I'm a very quiet guest, said Molly, helpfully. I always tidy up the washroom.

Still not tempted, said Imogene, who had finished stuffing her clothes into a shoulder bag. Hi, bye, nice to meet you, she said to Molly, as she lifted her half-jacket from the hook by the door. If anybody shows up for me, I'll be at my mate Kyla's until Wednesday night. And if stuff arrives from the boutique, leave it on the table. On no account open it, because it's totally expensive. She shut the door behind her.

Left on our own, we ordered pizza, put on some records from the little stack of dance records, oldies on 78s, in tatty paper sleeves piled beside my portable turntable, and, eventually, kicked off our shoes and danced in silliness on my mattress like two goats discovering a trampoline. The last of the gelato from the freezer was consumed, with copious amounts of chocolate syrup. Imogene would be glad she had escaped, if she only knew.

I can't believe you won't be at the hotel when I go back, I said. I know that only someone as worthy as George could ever have uprooted you like this ... but I never pictured it really happening, even though it should.

Molly was a girl who had never spent more than a weekend in London, and her whole life in Cornwall. But when she told me that he asked her to come, I knew she had said yes.

The empty gelato container was being thoroughly cleaned by Kip. I sat cross-legged at the end of my bed, across from her. In my time at the Penmarrow, you've never not been there, Molly. I couldn't help the little bit of sadness in my voice. I'm going back in a few more days, and you won't be there to catch me up on things, or ask me how my time away was — or, what four down could possibly be in your latest cipher.

From now on, you'll have to catch me up, I suppose, she said. I probably won't have any really exciting stories to tell, but you never know.

I had noticed that her braids were gone already, replaced by a fluffy cloud of hair pinned back on either side. No need to be practical all the time since she wasn't hoovering carpets or dusting at present.

You should have seen Brigette's face when I gave her my notice, she said. I don't know if it was because I quit or because she's afraid that we'll be short of help. First Juanita left, you know. And Lucky's away all summer, and then Malaya quit. It's a bit of a shock to her, people quitting when the hotel is just coming back into a bit of its own again.

New people always come, I said. People always go. You were the one who always reminded me of that, when I quit — and came back. But like you said, it's always a bit sad when it changes.

I gazed at the pictures and postcards on my wall's memory board. Some of them were of the Penmarrow and its staff; one was of Molly in her blue and white maid's dress, hunched with concentration over one of her beloved crossword ciphers at the staff teatime table. Now it's part of the past, just like memories of Norman weeding the iris beds, with his typical old gardener's hat and cigarette dangling between his lips.

I didn't want to go, in some ways. But ... like George was saying, it felt like it was time for us to be a bit more serious about us, she said, softly. Two pink spots appeared in her cheeks. I missed him. I didn't want to go on being the girlfriend he only sees at Christmas.

So off to Wales. I smiled. I guess it was your destiny after all. I couldn't tell if Molly remembered Natalie Norridge's uncanny prediction for her life. I still did, along with some other eerie premonitions on the part of the supposedly-pretend psychic.

I've never been there, so it'll be exciting, said Molly. Me, being an adventurer for once. No one would have expected that, would they have? She smiled and shrugged. Maybe a bit of you rubbed off on me. You coming to London to be a famous writer.

I'm still not one, I pointed out with a laugh. I barely make a living. Anyway, I didn't really want to come, it just sort of ... happened. I came, then I sort of became stuck in the scene, like the tide pushed me into the Thames's mud. My lips twitched.

First the need for faster wifi, then the coaxing from my agent, who wanted me to be closer to the networking scene in the literary world. And Dean. He had been incorrigible about my changing locations. It had only made sense, given that life at the Penmarrow seemed like a rather ludicrous place for a young writer to meet the right contacts and spread their wings towards their full potential of success.

That's not all the reason, because you've stayed a long time for someone who's used to moving about, said Molly, as she tucked her skirt around her knees.

There were other reasons, too, I answered. There was no need to pretend it wasn't true.

The first and only reason I had ever considered staying had been to see Sidney through his recovery — not that fate let me carry them out, having other plans for the world at the time. But, later, I had been given a stroke of fortune when it came to his post-recovery life. A chance to enfold myself into part of his existence, to see if the part of him that had loved me could find its way back to the surface.

But now he's in Norway, so I suppose that's not very convenient for you to see each other, she added, with that instinct for the truth that brought a blush to my face yet again. It's further away than Wales, even.

He's doing great, though, I said. The people he works for are really interesting and trying to expand into new genres, so they need someone who's open to a sort of 'creative learning curve.' He's getting lots of experience in the publishing world. He loves how beautiful it is there, too.

He wrote about a day spent in acquisitions, about the mixed feelings he had for sorting through other people's hopes and dreams with the necessary power of decision, no matter how good or bad the writing. The pastries he ate, the coffee he drank — the way the air smelled after a storm from the harbor, with tinges of old storms from Cornwall, unfamiliar ones from Nordic waters.

He had new friends — few, but still real, with names abbreviated to single capital letters, showing up in anecdotes about cultural misunderstandings and different roles he was shifted to in order to fill holiday gaps on staff. Sometimes silly, sometimes serious. As much like himself as he could be in written words.

At least you'll be happy again when he comes back, she said. And you're in the city where it must be hard not to keep busy. Brigette says everything grand or interesting really happens in places like the Penmarrow, but I think she only says it because she doesn't like to think more tourists want to visit Selfridges and Harrod's.

My keeping busy isn't exactly the stuff of eccentric guests or thrilling formal galas. Nothing like the excitement of the hotel permeated my average day — nothing of its quirkiness, with the exception of some of the interesting people waiting in line for falafels at the shop in my lane.

Life had become ordinary, very quickly ... or maybe I had, which is usually what causes an imagination to stop seeing interest and intrigue in every corner of life.

Me and Kip didn't take our walk past Big Ben or the bustle of Covent Garden's markets on our daily outing, with the most interesting thing we had discovered lately being a tiny, sad dandelion poking its way out of a pavement crack, an amazing testament to nature's tenacity. The power to survive, I had thought, with a touch of awe and a little of empathy as well.

For day two, I took Molly shopping and for touristy tea at one of the big hotel's, which put the Penmarrow's to shame as small by comparison of size, but not in terms of quality. It was the kind of place I never came on my own, but I knew that Molly craved a little city glamour. I had no idea what the Welsh town was like where she was moving, but there would probably be neither a Ritz Hotel nor tea trays like Fortnum & Mason's.

There wouldn't be a Penmarrow Hotel, either, because there was no place quite like it elsewhere, even if one scoured the world in search of it. I had never looked, personally, but I held that its uniqueness was as magical as Brigette believed, and not merely as a loyal employee. Without it, I would be waiting tables in London by now, surely, as if I had soaked in some of its energy to find my way as a novelist. I would not have found some of the magic that shaped my literary voice, nor the influences that shaped both my skills and myself with such tender sympathy. Such power belonged to that place alone.

We ate crisps for dinner at my flat, crinkly cellophane packets open atop newspaper covering the coffee table. I had made the decision to let Molly read my mostly-finished novel, the one I had spent my past three weeks creating. With curiosity for what that fire wrought in the eyes of another, I decided it might just be bearable to let something so personal be examined by a good friend, defying the typical failure of my courage's sticking point.

Trying not to have the puppy-dog look of expectation akin to Kip's whenever I brought home fish and chips, I sat curled up in my plush floor chair, pretending to read my emails. Mostly forwards from Arnold about writing conferences and the numbers for my audio book sales, which were lagging hopelessly at present.

Molly read with quiet absorption. She laughed once, at what I hoped was an actual humorous remark; her brow knit with concentration and deep interest in other places. Once or twice, she asked me about bits of it, whether it was a typo or a missing sentence. Kip hopped into the chair with me and curled up against my knees in moral support as I stroked his wiry chocolate and white fur.

She folded back the last pages on the e-reader. I could tell, because she closed the document program with a push of the button. My anxiety danced temporarily on pins and needles, making the most of its frantic state.

Her voice was soft. It's lovely, she said. She lowered the tablet. Maisie, I think it's quite nice. And you really finished it just a week ago?

Mostly, I said. I needed something to break the ice, so I can get back to work. Since Annie Ashton's adventures, I haven't done very much creatively on my own.

My foray into the world of the popular junior journalist had ended this past spring. I thought it would be a good way to get back into the groove, even if it's just a story for myself. And another who possesses half of it. Half of the memories that inspired it, the feelings mirrored by the boy and girl in their unusual world.

You aren't going to publish it? This, with disbelief.

You think I should? I answered. Other people wouldn't think it was nonsense? Maybe a little weird and offbeat? My editor at the publishing house was certainly one of those people — an absolute killjoy for the sentimental, he would detect melodramatic rubbish in that boldly-colored blend of reality and imagined fantasy — of the typical boy-and-girl-in-star-crossed-love variety. Fantastical realism in the young adult world sent up the stink of garbage to his nostrils, he had told me once before. 'This is a hard pass, Maisie,' I could hear him saying. Snottily.

Not at all, she said. I think lots of people would like it. It's so moving, and interesting. I didn't know what was going to happen to them at all in some parts, and that's what made it so exciting. And the end was a bit happy and a bit sad at the same time — I suppose one knew it was coming, even though it did feel like a surprise that way.

She laid the tablet on her lap. In some ways ... I thought maybe it was a bit more than just a story, she said. But writers make things up sometimes that feel real, don't they? Her voice went a bit shy, as if afraid I might not have wanted her to see the personal side of the book.

That's the part that made it hard, I answered. My voice went a bit quiet now. I just kept thinking about him, Molly. I couldn't help it. It kept coming, so I thought I would see what happened if I let it out.

Memories that felt trite and flat to share in person had morphed into different moments with the same meaning — into symbols and metaphors on paper. Unfettered words, ones that revealed things I had not even realized were deep within me.

When they became part of imaginary lives, they came alive — a counterpart me in another time and place lived them, a world that had different rules and different faces, but a parallel heartbeat to my true self beneath them all. The girl whose fantasies painted themselves like pictures in the real world — the boy, both paradox and human, who could see her imaginary world in his reality, understanding the seemingly impossible.

Do you like it? Molly asked. I nodded.

It is what it was meant to be. We weren't talking about the story, but about the experience of putting it into a pretend world shaped by words. Molly would twig this meaning, I knew. It exceeded it by more than I ever imagined.

Maybe I should have set out to write something different, a direct version of the time I shared with him, but this is what had come to me. It had brought the heart of it to life without the pitfalls of the past being narrated like a biography — or another flat version of things past, with all the meaning of nearly-blank postcards with scenic images. No fumbling to say the right thing could ever say what the feelings in fantasy had done, at least in terms of what it had sparked within me.

Anyway, I can think of people who would want to read it. Brigette would ... not Katy ... but probably Tamara, Molly said. You probably know lots more who would like it.

Maybe I'll have copies printed for the people I care about most, I answered, playfully. There's a thought. What would Brad say if I announced that at our next — and probably never happening — meeting? Gazing at me with that snooty expression over the rims of his reading glasses, which had been a pair of hideously-oversized yellowish frames last time I saw him, which he evidently believed were the height of trendy.

You're going to let Sidney read it, aren't you? Molly's voice grew a bit shy again, as it had when she mentioned the nature of the story.

Again, I nodded, although I had been less sure at the end than at the beginning, despite it being the original plan. After the story became physically real, I had felt exhilarated by it, and afraid. Afraid of what it was doing to our collective experience, as if it was turning it into something that had a life I didn't fully control.

The heart remained intact, no matter the changes. Fictionalized, but still created for him, and by his existence. Just as when all the events which inspired it were their true selves. Whether one or a hundred other people ever read it, that was the fact of its creation.

I think he'll like it, said Molly.

______________________

I saw Molly off at the station as she left for Wales, her new confidence brimming from her, twinkling like the little star-like hairclips she wore. Another gift from George, maybe, for the next stage of Molly's new adventure.

No more striped uniform or crossword puzzles in apron pockets, I thought, sadly. No more braid with a bright ribbon of the day, for braids were now in Molly's past. The new honey cloud of hair was flowing freely in the breeze beneath her twin barrettes.

I felt a pang of loss. The old Molly was gone already.

The train's announcement came over the P.A. system, and she hugged me tightly. I clung onto her in return, until I felt her draw back, giving me another smile.

I'll be back to see you again, she said. Wales is probably even closer. I probably won't be in Tonteg for very long, because George says in another couple of years, he might even transfer to the observatory near the city. He thinks maybe one of the universities is interested in his latest paper.

What will you do with yourself? I asked her, smiling back, in hopes of seeming brighter in spirit, less sad than the moment just before.

I expect I'll find something, she answered, shrugging. Maybe another hotel or tea house. I'm not really expecting to do anything very ambitious, you know.

They'll be lucky to have you, whoever they are, I answered, squeezing her hands. I'll miss you, Molly. I was going to feel her absence when I was back at the hotel, up in my attic room with the knowledge that her own down the hall was empty.

Take care of yourself, I said. If you need anything, you can always call me. You know I'm always happy to talk to a friend at any time. Day or night.

I know, she said. She squeezed my fingers back. I'll ring lots. You can tell me all about things at the hotel, because I'm going to miss it at first. It was my first proper job — nothing will feel quite the same, probably. But this is my chance to see a bit of the world, so I hope it will be exciting.

It will be, I promised. I didn't need to be psychic to know that Molly's new life brimmed with it at this moment.

The train was coming, the rumble from the tracks vibrating the air. Molly glanced its way expectantly, then turned back to me. Keep me posted on the hotel's summer, everything interesting that happens, she said. All the bits about Brigette's romance and what happens with Katy's new boyfriend.

I will, I promised. I'll make certain that you're not left out of any important developments.

Good, because I will miss all of them. She hesitated. And ... look after Mr. Trelawney especially, if you can. He's not himself this summer.

My brow furrowed. What do you mean? I said. The train was rushing in now, the noise of it competing with my voice. We were short of both words and time as other passengers gathered their things and prepared to board.

She raised her voice over the noise. Look after all of them — come and see me when I'm settled, and when you're not so busy writing, she said. She hugged me again. Goodbye, Maisie.

Goodbye. I felt a surge of bittersweetness, that I was saying this word to her, and meaning it for more than a weekend, or a couple of weeks.

Quickly, she gathered her luggage, hurrying to make it aboard. Tell Sidney hello for me, she called back as she reached the door.

I will, I answered, striving to be heard above the platform's noise. I watched for one last goodbye wave from the window as Molly settled in, and waved back until the train rolled out of the station again. The lump in my throat I swallowed. I knew I should be happy for Molly. Only the world's worst friend would rottenly do otherwise, failing to see how much she wanted to do this. I hoped that wasn't me.

Molly needn't fear for news of home — I would be spending a lot of time at the Penmarrow over the coming weeks, earning the quid that would be my thin financial patches to cover my dwindling royalties. Money for rent was the result of scraping funds and eating lots of dried Raman noodles. I didn't have any money for visiting my mom in the next year or two if I wanted to. I didn't have enough for a long weekend holiday on the continent, even if Brigette deigned to let me have an extra day or two off schedule.

Back at my flat, my calendar had another day crossed off faithfully, counting down to the one of Sidney's tentative return. The August date was circled twice, and I flipped to that page at least twice a week, silently counting the spaces in between. There were always too many left.

My tablet lay on the coffee table, the last page of my manuscript marking the stopping point of Molly when I switched it on after I came home from the station, sinking down in the plushy chair and searching for a distraction. My fingers pulled its pages backwards, flipping idly; they paused in one of the earlier chapters. The one introducing the book's other lead character, the story's male protagonist.

'Don't tell me your name, he said. I can guess it.

How? she asked. Look at me. No identifying factors. She spread her arms, in the sleeves of a jacket with no labels, no monograms.

There are ways, he answered. Give me a moment.

He made a pretense of deep study. He was stalling for time, unless he really did have extrasensory abilities, of which Claire was willing to suspend her doubts a little