Again, she cut me off. “You know how I feel about that word—actually. It is a crutch for people who can’t be bothered with specificity and coherence.”

“I am one of those people,” I reminded her. “I’m terrible at specificity—especially when speaking extemporaneously. But I promise to cross out all the actuallys in Senator Rustanov’s book if you let me have the cabin until Christmas—”

“Is that why you’ve come here then after choosing to spend so many of your holidays with your clueless half-sisters in Virginia?” she asked. “So that you might dedicate your sadly underused talents to an entire book about a politico?”

“Well…. Yes,” I answered carefully after a few awkward beats.

My mother was technically shorter than I am, but she somehow managed to look down her nose at me as she issued a cold, “I see.”

Sharon leaned over to Mom to point out, “Senator Rustanov’s that black woman from Texas—the one with the fine Russian billionaire husband. You like her.”

“Oh, you mean, the one meant to run for president.” Mom’s eyes lit up with the recognition of a name she—forgive me—actually recognized from the world outside the ones she created for her books. “I do like her, don’t I?”

Her expression softened, but then she narrowed her eyes at me. “You still have not found a mate worthy of you as your half-sisters have managed to do.”

“No, not yet,” I agreed, biting down on my back teeth.

“You’re 33rd birthday is fast approaching—”

This time, I interrupted her. “I’m aware, Mom. May I use the writing cabin until Christmas or not?”

Mom gave me another haughty look before decreeing, “You may.”

Then she instructed Sharon, “Make sure to give her the latest albums for my cabin collection.”

And with that, Mom swept out of the room in her colorful muumuu.

“Welcome home?” Sharon said with a wince as she helped me walk the groceries and Mom’s latest vinyl record purchases down to the shed where we stored the canoes for rowing back and forth across the Connecticut River—the famous waterway that flowed along the New Hampshire-Vermont state line. Mom’s former farmhouse, which had been refurbished with local woods to look like a luxury ski chalet, sat on the Vermont side of the river. In total contrast, her humble one-room writing cabin sat on the New Hampshire side.

Snow had begun fluttering down since my arrival two hours ago. But lucky for me, the river appeared calm. I wouldn’t have to fight the currents to row myself, my groceries, and my mom’s stack of records across it. Speaking of which…

“So, she still hasn’t started the last book in her fae cycle,” I guessed.