Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
The layman’s term for what Elle is doing is fangirling.
Damnably cute fangirling.
Aunt Clara laughs, and I realize why Elle’s laugh makes me feel so at home.
Because it’s how Aunt Clara used to laugh, before something I still don’t understand broke her and she lost her art.
There’s this delight I haven’t heard in years, but somehow Elle’s drawn it out of her.
I can’t take my eyes off them as Clara coaxes Elle into calming down, into taking her hand, into going inside with her.
They’re two completely different women, yet there’s a kinship there, an affinity that makes it feel like Elle is already family, just from the way she fits with Aunt Clara.
I can’t be having thoughts like that.
I can’t be wondering what it would be like if Elle stuck around after our illusion ends.
And I shouldn’t be lingering as Aunt Clara blows me a kiss and winks, like she knows she’s just stolen “my” girl.
But I do stay.
As they slip inside the cottage, chattering like old friends, I sink down against the outside wall with my heart heavy.
I can’t remember the last time anything felt this peaceful as I listen to them talking and laughing through the window.
IX
SUNNY DISPOSITION
(ELLE)
I think I’m bursting into confetti.
That’s the only way to describe how I feel right now.
Like I’m going to explode everywhere like some kind of party favor, and the only reason I’m not is because if I do, then I won’t get to spend another second with Clara Marshall.
She’s so cool.
She’s got this kind of classy southern reserve, and she dresses like she just fell out of a fashion catalog from the fifties, all poise and silk and flow. I can see the family resemblance to August, but where he exudes cool granite, she radiates warmth. The moment she meets you, she’s already your friend.
Oh God, I’d love to be her friend.
The inside of Clara’s studio is just as impressive as the outside.
The walls are a soft pastel blue and are covered in pinned-up sketch paper showing works in progress. There are shelves with Inky figurines—and they look handmade. I’ve seen a few of these as plush toys, but these look like originals Clara made herself.
Then there are shelves lined with original first-run prints of her books.
An easel, paints, sketchbooks everywhere, many left open across the U-shaped assortment of worktables, like she just stopped working a few minutes ago instead of years ago. There are even storyboards showing rough concepts for book plots, framed and hanging on the walls among the sketch paper.
It’s pure magic, getting to see everything that’s gone into a series that’s shaped my whole life.
I stand below a print that’s framed and labeled as the very first complete drawing of Inky. He’s a chubby, cute little thing, a young penguin with a white coat and a black belly.
Most baby penguins are a sort of pale, floofy grey with no real contrast-color markings like adults, but Inky is the inverse of an adult penguin. He stands proudly with his signature backpack, tipping the little hat he wears when he hikes around the world and dipping his little fountain pen into the black blot on his stomach for more ink.
This is it.
The drawing that started it all.
I just can’t seem to look away from its glory.
“The way you look at that drawing fills my heart.” Clara’s soft, ladylike voice at my shoulder startles me. “I wouldn’t think someone as young as you would even know a series as old as this.”
“People even younger than me love Inky!” I rush out. I turn to her, wishing so much to reach for her hands to impress this on her, but I have to remind myself that I’ve only just met her. “You have no idea, Miss Marsha—Clara. You really don’t. Your books still fly off the shelves. I’ve seen kids now who play Inky with their friends, pretending to march all over the world delivering letters.”
Her smile is sweet yet achingly sad.
Oh no. Why?
“Well, it’s good to know I’m not a has-been yet. No one writes in anymore, so I’ve quite run out of things to do.”
That strikes my heart terribly.
“They don’t? I . . . oh. That’s such a shame. I used to love sending letters to Inky when I was a kid. My friend Lena did too.”
“Hmm . . .” Clara taps her lower lip. Despite the pensive air around her, her eyes brighten, looking almost playful. “What was your last name again, dear? And what year would this have been?”
“Oh—it’s Eleanor Lark. Just like the bird. And I guess it would’ve been . . . sixteen or seventeen years ago? Maybe fifteen.”
“Okay, yes. Let’s see . . .”
Puzzled, I follow her as she turns away. In the small reading nook across from the work area, several huge trunks line the walls, crammed together until you couldn’t fit another one in the small space. With one hand stretched out toward them, Clara turns in a slow arc, murmuring years under her breath—then stops at one of the middle ones.