《His Secret Muse... Or Not》


 01 ^ My Savior

    My name is Sophie Bennett. I¡¯m a 26-year-old university dropout and a part-time librarian or will be next week. It''s now April and finally warm enough to wear a skirt. For me, that is. I usually wear blue slim jeans and a T-shirt, and when it''s chilly, I also wear a cardigan, hoodie, or light jacket. My shoulder-length blond hair is in a high ponytail, nothing fancy. It is slightly curly and has a naturally pinkish hue. I hated my hair as a kid, but nowadays it seems fashionable, so I am okay with it. I like simple things, like my clothes and everyday life. However, the past 10 months have been rough and tough for my aunt and me.


    My beloved 77-year-old Aunt Mabel, who is the most precious person in my life who raised me since childhood and with whom I lived, fell ill. I worried myself nearly to death, which caused me to fall behind in my studies, which was a source of all sorts of problems as well. As a result, I decided to leave the university, at least until I had everything sorted out, saved a little bit of money, and had my very own place to stay.


    Unfortunately, Aunt Mabel had never truly recovered, and she had to move into a retirement home. To cover the costs, she had to sell the house we lived in. That was my home, OUR HOME, in capital letters, along with my private room, which I dearly miss. As a poor student, I could not buy it or pay the bills for the retirement home. So, that meant that I also had to move. At the time, I was still studying, so I tried to get a cheap bed and space from the university dormitory, but it was full. Luckily, my fellow student Mary became an exchange student for a year, and I got to live in her apartment temporarily. The rent is quite low for that kind of flat, but it is quite high for me.


    As a result, all of this made my world shake, rattle, and roll¡ªbut not in a good way. I was feeling down and listless and was ready to give up. Then my savior, in the form of a book, came and brightened my day again: Evander Blackwood''s latest novel, "Mystery at the Shakespeare Club." I would not have chosen to read that particular book, as his works are not my usual genre. However, we had to select a newly published book for a university assignment.


    I probably should have chosen a different book, as this decision will lead me to attend a book signing event right now, and this encounter will yet again change my life irrevocably.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    As I walk down the bustling city street, my high ponytail swinging back and forth, I feel happy for a long time. I hold tightly to the shoulder strap of my large bag, my palms sweating and fingers itching. My heart is about to escape up to the sky and fly. I am, for heaven''s sake, going to meet my literary hero, a live one. Usually, my literary heroes were long gone, like Jane Austen, the Bront? sisters, and Victor Hugo. But now I have the opportunity to meet my new hero, Evander Blackwood face-to-face.


    He is a famous writer, almost a superstar. He is a 32-year-old handsome man with almost black, short, unruly hair and deep blue eyes. His style is a mixture of old gentleman''s and modern relaxed looks. There just was something about him that made him stand out, and his mystery books were very well received, even in the literary circles. He recently published a new book, a collection of short stories. I read from the interview that the stories were inspired by his youth experiences in Sweden, where he lived for almost 10 years before returning to the States. The new book is the reason for today''s signing event. Perhaps I will buy it from the store now that I''m going there?


    As I continue my fast-paced walk, my mind starts to drift to the job I''m about to start at the local branch library. I am going to be only a part-time helper, but it is not ideal for the situation I''m in. But it is better than nothing, and I need money badly. But as a bonus, I''m surrounded by books and knowledge, and able to introduce new reading experiences to customers.


    That leads my thoughts to turn back to my elderly aunt, and I can''t help but feel concerned about how she is adjusting to her new environment. Is she lonely? Is she missing our lovely little home as much as I do? I make a note to myself to visit her tomorrow and bring along some of her favorite books to read to her. She loves that tremendously. It was a habit we developed when I had just moved in to live with my aunt. I missed my parents dearly, and I was not able to calm down. But when I read aloud, I could finally find my peace. That helped me through that awful period. I was only 12 at the time, an age when life and all began to become difficult anyway.


    Yes, I''m an orphan. My parents died in a car accident one rainy day in September. They were arriving from the airport to pick me up, but they never arrived or picked me up. That time was confusing, and my memories are all blurred.For some reason, it has never occurred to me to ask what had happened. One day I have to talk with Aunt Mabel while she is still able to remember.

 02 ^ Its almost my turn

    At the bookstore, the line snakes out of the entrance and down the street. Apparently, the whole city had come out for the signing event. I catch a brief glimpse of Evander Blackwood through the window, seated at a table, talking to the people, and signing the books. High stacks of his latest book rise high beside him. He looks exactly like the pictures I had seen¡ªtall, dark, and undeniably charismatic. I can''t help but smile. Even from a distance, I can sense that the star of the event, Mr. Evander Blackwood, has a strong celebrity aura, or maybe that is only my anticipation. Either way, he is undoubtedly a handsome and mysterious man.


    As I join the line, I hear my phone ringing from my large bag, which I love so much. It looks stylish but can still contain plenty of books, my laptop, and even a cosmetic bag and some spare clothes. But it''s hellish to find anything there, and this is not an exception. It takes me some time to rummage the phone out.


    "Hello, Mary. How are you? Is everything okay?"


    I try to keep my voice down to be discreet for the people in the line. I thank her inwardly for calling me at such a time. She provides lovely entertainment while I am lining. Otherwise, I would focus too much attention on the upcoming meeting. She has a lot of news from England, where she is currently located.


    While talking to Mary, I quickly find myself inside the bookstore, and only a handful of people are left before me. There is a small gap between the first person in the line and the one who is talking with the author, allowing a tiny bit of privacy, I suppose. A stern-looking security guard stands next to the table, and a person from the bookstore guides the fan whose turn it is.


    "It''s almost my turn now. I need to hang up," I tell her more sternly, keeping my voice down at the same time, but she is speaking too enthusiastically about something to hear me.


    "Mary," I say louder into the phone while glancing stealthily at the personnel. I hope I don''t draw attention.


    "Let¡¯s talk more later. I really have to end the call now."If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    I hang up the mobile while she is still talking. "I''m sorry, Mary! I''ll explain it to you later," I think as I place it back in my large shoulder bag and pull out my copy of Evander Blackwood''s novel, "Mystery at the Shakespeare Club."


    Over the past few months, the book has been with me constantly. I have read it multiple times, and I still read it when waiting for a bus, on the bus, and between classes, but I never read it to my aunt. I didn''t even dare to show or talk about the book at home. I read it in my room after until I was sure she had gone to bed. Because it has spicy chapters.


    My aunt probably has seen everything as she was married, twice even, but I feel awkward. The book has given me a much-needed escape from the difficult situation I was, and still am, facing. It has been my beacon in the darkness. I trace my fingers over the golden embossed title, recalling how the story had captured my soul from the start. I wouldn''t be standing right now, in line, if I hadn''t read it. It was one of those books you wished to read the first time over and over again.


    My palms feel sweaty, and my neck tingles as I realize that there is only one person in front of me. Soon I will meet him and say the words I have long planned. When I found out about the signing event, I made a lot of effort to write down everything I wanted to say to him. The words should not be too elaborate (who needs all those details anyway?) or ostentatious (I''m not fancy-pansy), but they should be meaningful and deep enough. I even added subtle literary references. It took me literally hours and several versions to make them just right. And, of course, I memorized them. It would look awkward to read them straight from the paper. I''m not giving him the formal thank you speech. I internally roll my eyes.


    I''m so close to him, and I cannot believe this! I close my eyes and imagine smelling his masculine aftershave; I probably won''t, and most likely it comes from somebody else in the line, but I can''t help myself. My heart is about to explode as the excitement builds. This makes me waver over every word I had planned to say. Does it sound ridiculous, and do I seem like a lunatic with my overflowing emotions? Or will my nervousness betray me, causing me to stumble over my carefully rehearsed lines?


    The person in front of me leaves with a happy smirk on his face, and the guide motions for me to move forward.


    "This is it, Sophie. Don''t blow it," I whisper to myself encouragingly, clutching the book tighter to my chest while trying to smooth my hair and clothes with my free hand to be more presentable.


    And finally, after all this waiting and anticipation, I''m standing before him, unable to breathe, and tiny tears well up in my eyes.

 03 ^ The least favorite task

    Evander Blackwood, renowned author of successful mystery novels, sits on an uncomfortable couch, which is merely a wooden bench with a thin cushion. The jumbled chatter from the store is distracting, making him anxious. It serves as a nagging reminder of why he is here. He can feel the headache rising.


    His eyes are closed, a small smear of grease on his forehead as he massages his temples. However, the restlessness is too persistent for it to help. He sighs heavily, recalling Isabelle''s harsh words three months ago after the disappointing sales figures of his latest novel had arrived.


    "You, Mr. Blackwood, have flopped. Step down from your solitary throne with your sorry ass and meet your subjects, Your Highness. I will arrange a book tour for you and plenty of interviews. You still remember those?" She had said sternly, and added, "And you will smile when I say so, you will jump if I request, and most importantly, you must be polite and kind to everyone. I''m not asking; I''m demanding."


    Cold sweat rises on the back of his neck, and he shivers. He can still feel her icy black eyes burning through his spine. He can very well imagine her as the queen of the demon world.


    Those Eyes to rule them all, Those Eyes to find them, Those Eyes to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them.


    "No offense intended, Mr. Tolkien," the thought makes him chuckle, easing the tension a little. However, thanks to Isabelle''s hard efforts, he is sitting on a shabby couch in an insignificant, smallish, and smellish bookstore, taking a break before continuing to meet his readers.


    The staff room of the bookstore is barely adequate, smelling slightly of humans and a detergent, but at least the snacks are to his liking. They were most likely organized by Isabelle, as she knows his taste the best. As is expected from his long-time editor and assistant, Isabelle Grant. He could not live without her, or, preferably, he could not do his work¡ªwriting fiction novels¡ªat all without her.


    They had started together ten years ago, two literary enthusiasts: one an aspiring writer and the other an aspiring editor. As he gained recognition, so did she. Thus, she became one of the most sought-after editors in the field. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    She has a very busy life in New York, the center of the publishing world. Whereas he lived here and there, sometimes abroad, never settling in one place. He did have a home, an expensive penthouse in New York, but it was occupied by his editor, so he never visited the place. When he visited the city, he booked a room in a hotel. The arrangement was a benefit that he gladly offered to her. She did keep also his papers organized and achieved there.


    The book tour was not done in vain. Even though the sales figures are now on the positive side, it cannot transform those bad reviews into good ones. The publisher is unhappy, he is unhappy, and everyone feels the same. What he and the world need is the next hit, a new novel to restore his reputation and everyone''s earnings. The new situation worries him, but he is confident he can make it right. So far, everything he has done has been a success, not always a huge one, but a success nonetheless.


    "Mr. Blackwood, it is time to meet the last group of the readers. Could you please move to the store area? Thank you."


    "Oh, is it already time? Well then, let''s go," he says to the lovely, somewhat older lady, the bookstore owner who has kept him company all day.


    She and the security person, who is also on a break, follow behind him to the store area. Throughout the day, he tried to have a conversation with the security person, but to no avail, only receiving one word or none in return. The owner lady, on the other hand, has been a nuisance at times.


    He sits at the table reserved for him and can see an endless line of people waiting for him. On the table is a bottle of (his favorite) mineral water, a pen holder containing plenty of (his favorite) pens, swag, and high stacks of his newest novel and discount coupons for his works. Holding Isabelle''s command firmly in his mind, he fabricates (his favorite) smile on his face and greets the first person in line. Fortunately, this was the last event, and then he could be free, or relatively free.


    After a while, after numerous fans, shared stories, and various signatures written, he could hardly wait to finish this (least favorite) task. A pang strikes his heart, knowing very well that he is being unjust. All the things he has have been provided by his readers. But at the same time, he wishes to maintain his distance from them. He dislikes the masses, wanting to keep only a few people close.


    He cannot help it, and his thoughts begin to wander to a comfortable villa nearby that Isabelle had arranged for him so he could soothe his nerves and the ache in his hand, which was undoubtedly coming.


    He dreams of basking in the evening sun on the balcony, sipping the best white tea he acquired, with a hot towel on his hand, and contemplating the novel he plans to write. It surely would be a success this time.

 04 ^ My years at the university did not prepare me for this moment

    Evander Blackwood, alive before me, wears a light brown suit with a hint of 20s style, a vest, and a pocket square. I peek around the table, half expecting to find a walking stick leaning against it. He whispers something to the guide standing next to him, who appears to be an older lady. As she passes me, the scent of woolen lavender leaves behind her.


    He takes a small, leathery notebook from his suit pocket and writes something to it. I have a brief moment of solitude, almost as if everyone has forgotten I am there, but then he looks up and turns those intense, dark blue eyes on me.


    "Oh my god! Oh my god!! OMG!!!,..." My mind races as I try to look like this is my everyday bread and smile coolly back. I can''t help but squeak silently because, up close, he''s even more striking. This near, I can truly smell his aftershave, see tiny wrinkles around his eyes, and notice a flicker of weariness in his smile.


    "H- hi," I manage to say stupidly. "I''m Sophie, and I just wanted to tell you how much this book means to me." I blurt out, and all the nice words I had planned to say slip away into an unreachable hole. My cheeks start to tingle with embarrassment. I¡¯m sure I¡¯m the thousandth person who has said exactly that to him. That much originality, huh?


    "This book... it lifted my spirits during a tough time. I love Momo, she is my favorite character, and Lavinia, and even the villains are great¡ªespecially Yorick. His fate touched me..." My voice falters, making it hard to continue.


    "Thank you, Sophie," he saves me, maintaining his intense gaze. But instead of making me more nervous, it soothes me and is easier to breathe.


    "It''s always a pleasure to meet someone who finds my work helpful," his voice is deep and melodic (of course it is).


    ¡°I will recommend the book to my customers,¡± I say in a normal, steady voice, but as I see him slightly raise an eyebrow, I hastily add, ¡°I mean, when I start working at a library next week and meet the customers.¡±


    "Congratulations! I''m sure you will be successful working there," he says, stretching out his hand, obviously targeting the book I hold on tightly.


    "I''m sure you want me to sign it," he says, and I sense a slight amusement in his voice.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    "Oh, I''m sorry. Of course, I do."


    My fingers tremble slightly as I hand him my worn-down copy of "Mystery at the Shakespeare Club.¡± He takes it from my hands and glances down at its tattered corners, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. For a moment, I feel he wants to say something, but instead, he simply flips it open, ready to sign.


    "Do you have any requirements you would like me to write?"


    Once more, his deep blue eyes meet mine, demanding an answer. I should have prepared something beforehand. Why didn''t I do that? "To Sophie" is far too bland. But suddenly, I find myself losing any coherent thought about what I should ask. How stupid of me, I decide. My years at the university did not prepare me for this moment. I sigh inwardly, disappointed in myself.


    "Just... just a few inspiring words will be fine," I finally manage to say. "Something that reminds me to keep going, even when it''s hard."


    Evander nods at me, and a hint of a smile flickers at the corners of his lips. He leans over the book and takes the stylish pen from the table. His hand moves swiftly across the page as he writes a message for me. Then he closes the cover and hands the book back to me, and for the briefest moment, his fingers brush against mine. That sudden touch sends a shiver through my body, making it difficult for me to keep a straight face.


    "Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise, Sophie," he recites the words he wrote, turning back to me. "This may be a clich¨¦, but it''s very true. I hope the sun has risen for you."


    "That''s from Victor Hugo. Thank you, Mr. Blackwood. I love his poems so much. Those are less well-known, overshadowed by Les Mis¨¦rables. Undeniably so, as it is a great classic," I say, my voice thick with emotion when I recognize the famous quote from one of my favorite writers. "And yes, now it is much better, thank you for asking."


    "I''m glad to hear it. Have you read his works? Even his poetry?"


    "Yes. I love many romance-era authors, but he holds a special place in my heart. Even though he was a notorious womanizer, but¡ª" My voice fades as I hear a subtle cough from the guide''s direction.


    While we were talking, she had returned to her place. A glance at the guide, along with the weight of the line''s impatience pressing on my neck, harshly reminds me that our limited time is running out.


    "I''m afraid our time has come to an end. Thank you, Sophie," he says, a faint smile on his lips, but his eyes turn emotionless. His fingers tighten around the pen he is still holding.


    "Thank you, Evander."


    I linger for a moment, trying to capture one final image of him. He runs his fingers through his dark, nearly jet-black hair as his focus shifts to the next person. And I just melt there, but the situation forces me to step further away.


    I whisper one last time, "Thank you, Mr. Blackwood," but he probably can''t hear me.