Bridget looked away. “Those books have been part of my life for a long time. I started reading them when I was eight.”

“Eight?” He was shocked, remembering the single episode of the TV show he had seen. It had seemed too graphic, even for him. “Isn’t that way too young?”

“I snuck the first one from my mom. She was a big fan.”

“Was?” Ajay echoed. “She doesn’t like them anymore?”

Bridget swallowed. “She’s dead.”

BOB

I Don’t Think You Understand

The need to pee had finally trumped Bob’s vow not to use the chamber pot. Afterward he’d shoved it back under the bed and tried to forget about it. Instead, he focused on the note.

Better start writing Eyes of the Forest. Or else!

From a writerly standpoint, Bob appreciated Derrick leaving the “or else” for him to fill in. The unknown was far worse than the known. And the reader always conjured up a more frightening threat than the writer could.

Derrick wasn’t the only one who wanted Bob to finish Eyes of the Forest. Everyone was mad at him, starting with his publisher.

The last time he’d seen Jamie, his editor, had been a few months ago. Bob had been in New York for a fantasy con, and Jamie insisted on taking him out to dinner. It was the kind of restaurant with no menus.

Soon after they were seated, the waiter set down a mirrored tray. On it a short candle flickered next to a crusty loaf and lines of spices.

No plates. They must be meant to share. At medieval banquets, the lord’s plate was piled high. If he so desired, everyone at the table could share his food, a high honor indeed.

Bob wondered which one of them was the lord in this scenario.

He sniffed. The candle smelled delicious—and oddly familiar.

The waiter pointed. “Semolina baguette, accompanied by sumac, Maldon sea salt, spicebush berries, and our edible beef tallow candle. The chef made it by infusing rendered beef fat with rosemary, sage, and thyme.”

As he spoke, he snuck a glance at Bob. It was getting harder and harder to be anonymous. At least at this restaurant there were fewer chances a stranger would demand a selfie or beg to be cast in the TV show.

Jamie leaned forward and gently blew out the flame.

Mouth watering, Bob tore off a section of bread. “Spreading animal fat on bread is an old practice,” he noted, smearing the hunk over what had been a candle. “Beef tallow was used in eighteenth-century England to moisten stale loaves.”