“Orelia. What do you think?” she asked Emily, who didn’t answer because one, she was a cat, and two, she had been fast asleep for hours.

Then she tried a few surnames.

Eastgate. No, too long.

Smith. Too plain.

McCarthy. Too many syllables.

Then Mason soared in, attaching itself, a carriage connecting to a train engine, fitting perfectly as if the two names were reserved for her.

“Orelia Mason,” she said to the room, and repeated her name to the bookcase, the prints and to Emily, who’d begun to stir.

“Orelia Mason, best-selling author.”

Now that had a catchy ring. She saw it written across the cover of a novel. Yes. Yes. That was the name!

Orelia Mason was not just her new name. It would become the signature for a new beginning.

In this life she’d sail as far from her past as possible. In this life, she’d become a great writer and find a path to success with this growing mound of pages. Her heart swelled as she thought about the future which lay ahead. Nothing and nobody would stand in her way.

She smiled, confident she possessed everything she needed to achieve this dream. She had courage and maybe a little talent, and if things became too difficult, she had the diary.

Bye-bye Nem Stratton. Hello Orelia Mason.

52

William stood still, not a muscle flinching, as he watched Orelia stand over the bedraggled man. He recalled the same image of her hunching over the small, green book as their relationship ended three years ago.

The homeless man looked up at her in gratitude, but in the café, while he attempted to stare her into submission, she hadn’t even looked at him; in fact, her behavior was as though she’d forgotten he existed.

Her smile was what worried him; lips pursed, so sweet and demure, as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth (such a hackneyed cliché but so apt).

Off with the fairies, sprung to mind. She was smarter than that though, and her self-control—which he hadn’t known she possessed in such abundance—seemed to be serving her well.

He remembered thinking that perhaps she did have what it took to be a professional author. Discipline, infused into every pore to keep going on those days when your confidence is lost. Tenacity, so even if you’re stuck or exhausted to the point of not thinking straight, you keep going. Crocodile skin, which he’d told her she needed, and seemed to be shielding her right then.

What could be so important in that book to draw her attention away after what he’d just said in the heated argument? Well, he knew now of course.

All he did then was follow her gaze, noting the open pages absorbing her attention. They seemed divided into two columns but from this upside-down view the words were unreadable. Orelia’s arm partially covered the opposite page as though she protected answers given in a test.

She noted down a few words which he still couldn’t read. He was about to ask her what the hell she found so mesmerizing, when an odd sensation came over him.