Emily Morro

Little Black Book

It had been a year since I had naively accepted the contract that was supposed to change everything. The offer, when it came, had read like something out of a dream I had lazily hoped for a decade ago. When the letter had come wax sealed on thick, expensive stationary, I saw stars. Hiram Thomas’ firm in Dorchester, England was the stuff of legend in the fiction community, particularly for his fantasy pieces. He had an extremely small, intimate team who churned out a book once every few years. But every work was a masterpiece. My letter had said that my work could bring a refreshing perspective on their team. Writing under Hiram’s brilliant tutelage would be just what my stale career needed. What I found, however, was a grouchy, insane old man who lived like a recluse in a cottage on a hillside.