He thought a moment, then said, “If faith in love were a source of energy, you could power a small planet.”

It was the single most reassuring sentence anyone had said to me since my breakup with Ryan. Also, it felt true, and as if all I’d needed was for some kind soul to point it out.

“Lanie?”

It’s Sue in my doorway. Sue, who hardly ever leaves her office, who makes everyone come to her.

“I see you’re all moved in. Sort of. Is now a good time for a chat?”

“Of course,” I say, inviting her into my disaster of an office. “Did I miss a meeting?”

“Oh no,” Sue says, closing my door then mazing through my boxes. “I was just in your neck of the woods to see Emily.”

Emily Hines is Peony’s other editorial director. For years, she was Alix’s low-key rival, due to her unconcealed jealousy of Noa Callaway’s success. Every year Emily tries to acquire a knockoff Noa Callaway, and sometimes they’re good enough to make the list for a minute. When Sue says if I can’t deliver Noa’s next book then she’ll find someone who can—I know who that someone is.

“Emily’s been raving about her new madeleine molds,” Sue tells me. “I finally bought one over the weekend, and it’s marvelous.” She glances at me. “Do you bake?”

“Oh . . . sometimes,” I lie, trying to think of a single successful thing I’ve pulled from my oven. “Brownies are . . . good.”

“Yes.” Sue nods slowly.

This is not going well. Do I have to start buying random crap at Sur la Table so I can stay on Sue’s good side?

No. I just need a manuscript from Noa Callaway.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I say, taking control of the meeting. “Noa and I had a breakthrough the other day.”

This is true—though our breakthrough was more personal than professional. Before Sue can ask for specifics, I push on, pulling confidence out of thin air.

“Noa wants to visit the Cloisters on Saturday to do some research,” I say. “I have a feeling, soon after that, I’ll be able to share the premise of the new book.”

Sue nods, a hint of approval in her eyes. “The Cloisters is an interesting setting. But what’s the hook?”

“It’s still a bit inchoate, but we’re getting there—”

“Get there by sales conference. Three weeks from tomorrow. And by ‘there’ I mean a title and some catalog copy. What about the manuscript deadline?”

“Still on track,” I say, steadying my voice. “May fifteenth.”

Ten weeks from now. It’s in the outer limits of possible. If he gets an idea incredibly soon, and then proceeds to write like the wind.