he ether, or to watch seventy years of literary heritage crumble into dust and receivership. Nora felt as though the floorboards beneath her feet,

he paced the worn rug in her office, the urgent missive from the bank clutched in her hand like a bad omen.

hrough her already dishevelled hair. Her usual brisk optimism had been eroded

. And every bank we've approached since the initial downturn has politely, or not so politely,

ronis

urning out algorithm-driven bestsellers or celebrity memoirs. They were nurturing voices, taking chances, publishing books

orly concealed anxiety that twisted her insides. "Any news, my dear? Any... positive developments?" He'd been trying to call his old contacts, me

lie tasted like ash in her mouth. After she'd hung up, carefully reiterating her plea for him not to overtire himself, she leaned her forehead ag

a. Carmichael was a reclusive philanthropist, known for eccentric but occasio

only communicates through three layers of lawyers who specialize in saying

sed down on Nora, immense and suffocating. It wasn't just the business; it was the staff – Timothy, the earnest intern; Mrs. Albright in accounts, who'd been w

cold and insidious, was beginning to seep into the cracks of her resolve. She was slumped at her desk, staring blankly at a list of names

le breathless. "There's... there's a courie

ics? The tech company?" What on earth would they want with Ainsworth Press? Had they perha

in a sharp, dark uniform, carrying a slim, silver briefcase from which he extracted an

cool, almost unnervingly smooth, to the touch. Inside, a single, heavy card requested the honor of Ms. Eleonora Ainsworth's presence at a meeting with Mr. Alexander Hawthorne, Ch

over Nora's shoulder. "The Alexander Hawthorn

ecisive, with a fortune so vast it was almost an abstraction. He was a creature of a world utterly alien to her own. Rumors painted him as brilliant, reclus

scure poetry?" Nora attempted, a weak smile fli

ave a surplus of unsold hardbacks," Clara countered, her tone dry, but her eye

ape of their options, this utterly inexplicable development shone with a faint, almost hallucinatory glimmer. What if? The question, however improbable, lodged itsel

Every other door was closed. This, however strange, however unlikely, was a door t

ke that... they don't do anything without a very specific

mmons from Hawthorne Dynamics lying on her bed like an unexploded ordnance. She by

'd bought for a literary awards dinner years ago and b

ject an image of calm professionalism, of quiet dignity, even if, beneath the surface, her h

lass and steel fortress of Alexander Hawt