The corridor clock's sharp ticking slipped through the slight crack of the study door, its steady pace serving as the metronome for the rock of Florence's chair. Sat beside a small side table, the author rested her head on the sunrise-hued velvet cushioning of her seat, her eyes barely flickering open. She nursed a tumbler of water above the table, and the face she pulled after every sip seethed with latent resentment. Thin layers of dust ran along her tartan blanket.

    Though popular with twenty- and thirty-somethings, Florence Jago herself was in her late-fifties with an extra ten years of baggage slung beneath her dark eyes. Her thin arms hung like lead weights from her shoulders, and a ghastly paleness possessed her light-brown skin. All her beige cardigan's buttons lay fastened save for one below her thin hanging spectacles, yet she did not move to close it.

    Elise glanced over at Arin, his long legs awkwardly perched on a stool carried in from the kitchen. As he tapped his fingers against his cup's floral print, Elise cleared her throat and shuffled forward in her armchair. "You have a lovely home, Florence," she said with an optimistic smile. "It's very...peaceful by the lake. Have you lived here long?"

    Without moving her head, Florence widened her eyes and flicked their gaze in Elise's direction. Elise drifted back in her seat and hid behind a long swig of the red-label tea in her otter-adorned mug. Arin's stool screeched forward across the wooden flooring to break the lull in conversation. "Actually, Florence only moved here a couple of years ago," he said, leaning towards the author until he was all but standing. "Isn't that right?"

    "Yes." Florence turned her eyes to her hand as she set her glass down. Her movements were slow and deliberate, and the amount of focus the author paid to the single action left Elise fidgeting in her seat. "It was just before she started slating my hard work on those websites of hers, I think."

    Arin muttered an apology towards Elise and fiddled with his rolled-up shirt sleeves. "A three-star review is hardly slating. You've received a lot worse, believe me, and from far more prominent outlets too. No offense, kid."

    "She hates my writing, Arin." For the first time, blood burned through Florence's cheeks, and tremors shook her fist as she smacked the arm of her rocking chair. "Every single thing I've ever put out, she's ripped it to pieces for easy money. Bloody vulture, she is."

    "It's not like that," Elise said, shaking her head to clear the panic that tarnished her voice. Her pulse quickened under the pressure of Florence's persistent fury. "I just have to think of my audience when I write, and the readers for both the local paper and most of the blogs I write for like slower, cosier romances. Your books tend to be too spicy for their tastes, that's all. It's nothing personal."

    Flaring her nostrils, Florence's syllables flew like darts to pin Elise to her seat. "You described my intimacy scenes as 'fuel for fever-induced nightmares over longing daydreams'."

    "That was about one scene where you called a certain body part 'his pulsing root'. What was I supposed to say about something like that?"

    Florence scoffed and reached for her drink. Just as her hand neared the tumbler, she froze, her digits locked in a statuesque pose. She pulled her hand back under her blanket with deep lines weighing on her brow and a string of curses on her tongue, waving away Arin's unspoken offer of assistance. "What's she doing here, anyway?" she asked as she jabbed a thin finger in Elise's direction. "Where's Melody?"

    A grey storm masked Arin's features, and he signalled the desk behind Florence's seat. "Melody is...busy. But Elise is here to look through your draft with you," he said, trying to brighten the room with a hollow smile. "I discussed getting a fresh pair of eyes in to help you last week, and you were fine with it."

    Rising from her seat, Elise checked the time on her phone. "I have a couple of hours before I have to leave for a lecture, and I'm more than happy to start today if you're willing." She inspected the desk, furrowing her brow at the lack of a printed draft to look over. "Is it saved on your computer?"

    The author leaned into Elise's view, and her fingernails tapped against the handle of her seat with a tense rhythm. "What are you blathering on about now?"

    "The first draft of your new novel," Elise replied, holding back a nervous laugh. "That's what Arin said you've been working on, after all."

    "Told you about that now, did he?" Though she directed her boiling rage towards Arin, enough heat blew around Florence's chair to scorch Elise's exposed skin. "You can get your grubby mitts clear of my computer, lass, for starters. And as for you, Arin, I've told you umpteen times, I'll get to work on the blasted book when I'm good and ready."

    Arin pinched the bridge of his nose as his shoulders sank, and his frustration bled out in sighed syllables. "Florence, you can't keep putting this off. The publishers won't wait forever."

    "Don't you dare tell me what to do in my own home!" Shivers racking her body, Florence's rage all but carried her out of her seat. The pictures on the walls trembled with the force of her bellow. "Get out of my sight, the pair of you. Now!"

    Knots gnarled their way through Elise's gut as she filed out of the study behind Arin. In the hot, cramped corridor, the clock's tick grew more abrasive with every swing. "She's intense," she said, the author's twisted face still screaming in her mind.

    "Don't beat yourself up, kid." Arin shut the study door and laid his head against it. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have pressed her while she was having difficulties."

    Her nausea gnawing at her stomach, Elise fell against the wood-panelled wall with a sigh. "Difficulties? What do you mean?"

    The floor creaked under Arin's shifting weight. "Florence gets a bit of brain fog now and then, that's all, and she's always been a bit irritable even in her best moments. It's nothing for you to worry about."

    Florence's aborted attempt to pick up her glass flashed through Elise's thoughts, the moment's oddness amplified by the thundering anger that had followed soon after. "What was she saying there about the first draft not being finished yet?" she asked, burying the memory before Florence's anger replayed in her mind. "How much is written up? I thought you said you were close to the deadline."

    "We are. I never said Florence was close to finishing on time," the man said with a shrug, running a hand through his short blonde hair. "She's not written a word in months, and all she says to me is that she's 'not ready'. That's the reason you're here, kid. I don't need you to fix her draft up. I need you to fix her up."

    Elise dug her fingers into the strap of her satchel. "What? Sorry, Arin, but there's no way I can do that. This is too much – she won't even talk to me!" She stared out across the lake's rippling surface. "Why don't you get that Melody she mentioned?"

    Throwing his jacket on, Arin sucked his teeth and paced along the corridor. "Forget about the Melody stuff, that's not important. Point is, that just now was the most enthusiastic Flo's been about writing in a long time. I've tried for months to get that kind of reaction out of her, and look where we are." He set a hand on Elise's shoulder and stared into her eyes, a faint hope blossoming on his face. "Come on, kid. What could motivate a writer like proving their worst critic wrong? Well, their worst critic that's available and willing to help, anyway."

    A layer of sweat formed across Elise's palms. She wanted to walk out into the freedom of fresh air, yet a small, unseen string yanked her mind back inside the cabin every time she resolved to leave. "I don't know..."

    Arin did not break his stare. "Think about it. I'll double your fee. Triple it, even. I'll quadruple it, final offer!"

    "Really?"

    "Probably not. When it comes to money, Florence keeps her purse tighter than a rush-hour train carriage, you'll find." A resigned sigh heaved its way through Arin's body. As rays of sunlight poked through the cabin's blinds, he nudged Elise's shoulder. "But I can definitely sweeten the deal if you take the job."

    The urge to chat to Robin about the deal floated in the back of Elise's mind, yet she did not need to see her flatmate's face to know how he would feel. Anything that both let Elise write and put money towards the bills was worth pursuing, even if it meant working with somebody as challenging as Florence. By his own admission, Robin had a ridiculous amount of faith in Elise's social skills. "Fine," she said with a shrug. "I'll try."

    Relief lifting the bag around his eyes, Arin's grin dispelled the shadows that lingered between them. "That's the spirit! I knew you were a go-getter from the moment the punk mentioned your name," he said, stroking the back of his neck in thought. "I'll get you another sit-down with Florence by next week, don't you worry about that. You might even get to look over what she's done so far, if you're lucky."

    Elise sipped the rest of her tea down. "I'm going to need a lot of luck to get anywhere with her."

    "Welcome to my world, kid."

    As she hopped on her bicycle, Elise waved at Arin's figure in one of the cabin's rear windows and pedalled up the lakeside road. A dense patch of cloud drifted towards the sun, and the sunbeams took the threat of cover as an excuse to bathe the surrounding water and treeline even further in rich colour. Roaming squirrels and deep potholes reshaped her smooth cycling course into a weaving, wobbling path, yet it was more than a fair price to pay to dodge the gnarled forest floor.

    A loud crash suddenly shattered the air and robbed the strength from Elise's legs. Coasting up the road ahead of her, a battered SUV came to a halt with a choked cough. "Is everything alright?" Elise called out, setting her bicycle against a tree and inspecting the side of the vehicle. Shock pricked her chest as she recognised every minor dent and patch of scratched paint. "Wait..."

    "Great. As if breaking down wasn't enough of a drag already." A flash of purple struck Elise's heart like a bolt of lightning, and Cadence's impatient fingers rumbled against the steering wheel as their eyes met. "What the hell are you doing here, Ellie? Are you following me?"

    A hurried gasp carried Elise to the car door, her fingers clutching the open window frame. "No, nothing like that! I'm working, or at least I'm trying to," she said, picking out the small distant figure of the cabin with her free hand. "I'm supposed to be editing something for the woman who lives there, but she hasn't actually written it yet. Oh, and she doesn't like my reviews of her books. And she just kicked me out."

    Through her gloom, a shred of amusement flickered across the curves of Cadence's lips. "Yeah, that sounds about right for the old grump," she answered with a chuckle. "Sorry about that. No one without a criminal record deserves to be on the wrong end of Flo's bitchy episodes."

    "After I found fault with her smut scenes, she probably thinks even less of me than that." Elise tugged at her jumper collar and wiped the only half-imagined sweat from her brow, laughing as Cadence smirked at her from the corner of her eye. "But how do you know Florence?"

    "Can't you tell?" Cadence threaded her hair out of her face, then let the locks fall again. "Actually, don't answer that. I don't want to know if it's so obvious."

    "What are you talking about, Cadence?"

    "Ellie, I live here. Flo is my mother – my real mother."