Page 13 of Edge of Secrets

“No,” I said. “Rescuing the captured princess is a winner. It works for everybody. It’s an archetype that’s programmed into our deepest childhood memories. Although I hope she won’t be a dull, helpless princess with no agency, or a sleeping princess, or a princess in a coma. Those will definitely get you the stink-eye these days. Your princess might need some help, but she has to have something special up her sleeve that’s all her own. She needs to participate.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, but we haven’t gotten that far yet,” he said. “We’re still in the design phase. I’ll be happy for your feedback about proactive princesses.”

“Good,” I said. “So it’s a computer game for hopeless romantics. Even I might be tempted to play a game like this one, although I’m sure I’d suck at it.”

Duncan Burk’s tapping pen was a steady sharp staccato. “It’s not for romantics,” he said tersely. “It’s mind candy for magic and fantasy freaks.”

“You don’t think that rescuing a captured princess is romantic?”

“That isn’t the point,” he said. “So? What can you do with the clues?” He leaned back in his chair and looked expectant.

I blinked. “You want me to write something for you right on the spot?”

“If you can,” he said blandly. “Write me a poem with the elements I gave you.”

I pulled off my glasses and polished them. It was easier to look him boldly in the face when he was a little blurry. “What type of poetry would you prefer? Early, mid, or late medieval? Renaissance? Classical antiquity? Homer, or Catullus, or Dante, or Chaucer? Spenser? Sidney? Heroic couplets, like Pope? Or something more, say, Miltonian?” I put my glasses back on, blinking as his dark, narrow, hawk-like face came back into focus. Wow. He was so fine. It was distracting.

He scowled. “How would I know? I don’t do poetry. That’s why you’re here.”

“It’s not a matter of knowing anything,” I explained patiently. “I just need a point of reference. A jumping off point. The more indications you give me, the quicker I can structure the piece. If you like, I’ll just choose a style arbitrarily for the purposes of this exercise. How about a Shakespearean sonnet?”

“Fine, whatever. Go for it.”

“Could you give me something to write on?”

He passed a legal pad and pen across the desk. I swiftly scribbled down the list of elements: vial, scrying pool, jeweled dagger, labyrinth, captured princess.

“Excuse my back,” I told him. “I’ll just turn around so I can concentrate.”

“Absolutely. Feel free,” he said.

I swiveled my chair until he was out of my direct line of vision and got to work with the elements he’d given me, taking notes and structuring the piece as ideas bubbled up.

There was great pleasure in doing something I was made for, even under pressure. This was my happy place. Words, language, stories, myth, and magic. I let the fear and stress melt out of my mind: Snake Eyes stalking us, losing Lucia, my still-unwritten thesis, my unpaid rent, how badly I needed a few hours of uninterrupted sleep with no stress nightmares to shatter it. Even the charismatic and compelling Duncan Burke himself faded away as I descended into that inner space.

These were the brain waves that had saved me when I was a little kid living with Elena. I had urgently needed not to focus on what was happening in the next room.

That shielded inner world had saved me once again while I was being shuttled from foster home to foster home, back before Lucia found me.

The magic place had always been there for me. It was safe, it was home, and it never let me down. In that place, I was at my best—clear-eyed, smart, brave, generous, connected to my creativity. I could imagine myself as deeper, calmer, wiser. Better.

About twenty minutes later, I turned spun the chair around and realized that Burke had not moved or spoken for the entire time that I was working.

He’d just sat there and watched, and it must have been about as interesting as watching paint dry.

I wondered if he was one of those guys who loathed being ignored. But he didn’t seem bothered by my having forgotten his existence. He looked curious. As if I were a puzzle that he was intent upon solving.

I ripped off all the drafts, scribbles, and notes and held out the legal pad with my final version. “Take a look,” I said. “That’ll give you an idea of how I work.”

Burke took the pad, looking dubious. “Finished already?”

“It’s a familiar exercise,” I told him. “I make my students do it all the time. The best way to study a poet’s style is from the inside out.”

He read what I’d written, then read it again. He looked at me for a long moment, still tapping his pen. Tappity-tappity-tappity-tap. It was starting to make me nervous.

“Do you want the job?” he asked.

Chapter Six

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