Essie stood on stage, her face illuminated by spotlights. Her eyes swam with tears and she hugged the crystal star to her chest. “I’d like to thank everyone who voted for this award. You have no idea what it means to me. I want to keep taking Georgia Rory on adventures for as long as you want me to. I’d like to say a huge thanks to Hank, and Ted, Meg at Peregrine, and...” She reeled off many more names Liv had seen in the acknowledgments in her books.

“Finally,” Essie said, “I’d like to thank someone very special who helped me to write. He encouraged me to live and to love, and this award is for him.”

Liv’s ears pricked. She moved her face closer to the screen.

The camera panned to Hank grinning proudly in the audience, and Ted standing there with a stern expression. There was a brief shot of the bearded, tattooed man she’d seen in the hidden photograph.

Essie was about to speak again, but a tear trickled down her cheek. “Thank you. That is all.” She performed a small curtsy then swept off the stage.

While watching, Liv’s body flooded with pride, too. Her cheeks glowed and she realized her own eyes were wet. The version of Essie in the video was so unlike the guarded figure she knew. The Constellation was a real pinnacle in the author’s career. Was her illness really enough for her to walk away from it all?

In the video, Essie stopped to pose for photographs in front of a banner.

Liv noticed the date of the awards was printed on it, November 1. She frowned and drummed her fingernails on the desk for a while. It was the same date as the Book Twenty deadline Essie requested, and the fictitious date of her death. Was it just a coincidence?

Liv searched around some more.

There was only one video taken at the Constellation after-party. It was jerky and dark, made by someone wandering around the room with a low-resolution phone or camera. It lasted an hour and Liv yawned, stopping the film after ten minutes. No wonder only a few people had watched and liked it.

When she started to type again her heart still swelled at seeing Essie in her prime.

Liv didn’t really believe in guardian angels, but she could still sense the author’s presence in the apartment, like how a headmistress can make pupils straighten their ties simply by walking down a corridor. It was a sensation that gave her comfort and also a shot of fear.

A memory of Essie dropped into her thoughts, as if the writer planted it there.

Around a year ago, she’d been dusting the shelves in the writing room when the author had lifted her chin. “If you had to describe the art of writing, Olivia, what would you say?” Essie said.