Page 14 of Better in Black
Lucie felt as if she had been writing this story her entire life, which was very nearly true. She never had any trouble imagining what might come next for the Beautiful Cordelia—one adventure always led ceaselessly into the next. But an ending? She couldn’t simplystopthe story—she needed to find the perfect conclusion, one that would feel surprising and inevitable and utterly satisfying,one that would leave the Beautiful Cordelia in a transformed state, but also one that seemed ordained by the fundamental essence of her character as she had appeared from page one. She was, to put it plainly, stymied.
“Easy,” James said. “You simply write ‘And the Beautiful Cordelia found love with her extremely handsome husband and lived happily ever after.’ ” He gazed adoringly at Cordelia. “Satisfyingandrealistic.”
“Good stories are never that simple,” Cordelia argued, and stuck out her tongue at James. “I thinkThe Beautiful Cordeliawants a bittersweet ending.”
“Doesshe?” James said.
Cordelia blushed. “The book, I mean,” she said. “As its first and most devoted reader, I feel I am the expert.”
“I’d rather thought I was the expert,” Lucie said, “as its author.”
But the argument proceeded as if she were not there. “As long as she doesn’t kill off any of the good characters,” James said. “I’ve invested too much in them. And surely I could never be satisfied by an ending that denied happiness to all who’d earned it.”
“On the contrary,” Cordelia said. “She has to kill at leastoneimportant character, otherwise no one will believe the conflict was real.”
“Well—” Lucie began.
“It’s not real,” James pointed out. “It’s a story. And why would I read a story unless I wanted something better than real life? Or at least a little less depressing.”
“Readers don’t know what they want,” Cordelia said. “They think they want their favorite characters to lead uneventful happy lives where nothing bad ever happens to them, but think about it. That would be an incredibly boring story to read! Deep down, readerswant their characters battered by tragedy and struggle, so they can emerge victorious.”
“Bittersweetly victorious,” James said.
“Indeed,” Cordelia said.
Lucie merely laughed to herself. She had noticed that everyone who’d read her book—everyone who’d read any book—thought they knew best what should happen next. It was a funny thing about writing: No one seemed to understand there was skill involved, practice required, hard work called for. James would never consider wielding a weapon in battle without hours and hours of training in how to use it. But she suspected he would consider himself more than qualified to sit down at the typewriter and endThe Beautiful Cordeliafor her, despite never having written a word of fiction in his life.
There was, she admitted, something wonderful about this. Storytelling was a fundamental impulse of humanity, as natural to the mind and body as eating and sleeping and falling in love. It made sense that everyone believed they could do it, because everyone who had ever been comforted by a story, or loved a character, or lived within a world of imagination, held a story world inside them.
It was just annoying when it washerbook they were talking about.
By the time Jesse arrived and they all sat down to dinner, conversation had moved on from the question of happy endings to the question of what, exactly, would constitute happiness for the fictional Cordelia.
“Certainly she should be reunited with Lord Hawke,” the real Cordelia said. “He was, after all, her first love, which must mean her truest one.”
“Her dullest one, you mean,” James said. “Now, Lord Byron Mandrake,that’san interesting fellow. Perhaps the Beautiful Cordelia secretly longs to live out her life as a pirate queen.”
“Or perhaps the Beautiful Cordelia simply longs for many jewels and a herd of stallions,” Cordelia said, teasing him.
“She very adamantly disclaimed such desire!” James said.
“Methinks she doth protest too much.”
“And you?” Lucie asked Jesse, who was smiling peaceably at his bickering future in-laws. Sometimes, Lucie knew, Jesse was still overcome to find himself alive again, surrounded by the warm, beating hearts of so many who loved him. She squeezed his hand, a bit overcome herself that she could reach for him whenever she liked, and he would always be there. “Do you have an ending you’d like to request? Perhaps the return of the Bandit King, or the revelation that the Duke of Blankshire faked his own death?”
“Any ending you choose will surely be the right one,” Jesse said. “I’m just happy a publisher has finally induced you to do so.” He caught Lucie’s eye and smiled, with a look just for her. “Though I wouldn’t mind if Lucinda and Sir Jethro ride into the sunset with each other.”
Lucie flushed pink, remembering the night she had come upon Jesse with her manuscript in his hand. That had been a long time ago, and many things had changed since then. For one thing, Jesse had been dead, and now he was miraculously not. For another, there was no longer any need to be embarrassed by him knowing that she’d dreamed him into a romantic hero. Still, she insisted to this day that Sir Jethro was not supposed to be him, any more than the Brave Princess Lucinda was supposed to be her. These were fictional creations, not to be in any way confused with the real-life people who may or may not have served as inspirations.Try as she always did to explain this, however, no one ever believed her. Lucie had accepted that the life of a successful author would be filled with such minor frustrations.
“It’s Lucie’s story,” Cordelia said. “Only she can find the perfect ending.” She beamed at herparabatai,her expression full of confidence. No one had ever believed in Lucie the way that Cordelia did. Under her gaze, Lucie felt capable of miracles. “And we know you will.”
They all raised a glass, toasting Lucie’s imminent publication, and everything to follow. Someday soon, Lucie thought, she and Jesse would be married, and Cordelia and James would join her at her own dinner table, in her own perfect little house, perhaps toasting her second book, or her tenth. This was the beginning of the rest of her life, and while she had admittedly worked very hard to get to this point, all she could feel, in this moment, was lucky.
—
The publisher had requested that Lucie send in her manuscript even before she had written the ending. The letter he’d sent said he was very eager to prepare for printing as soon as possible.The world has waited long enough forThe Beautiful Cordelia!read the message that had been hand-delivered to the Institute. Word of her brilliant manuscript had traveled far and wide, and Krog & Sons simplyhadto be the one to publish it, as soon as possible. So, the day after the dinner on Curzon Street, Lucie had one of the Irregulars carry the unfinished manuscript over to the address she’d been given.
Then she waited.
