The Angel's Game (The Cemetery of Forgotten 2)

“Señor Sempere told me that perhaps you could read some of my work and give me your opinion and some advice.”

I fixed my eyes on hers for a few seconds before replying. She held my gaze without blinking.

“Is that all?”

“No.”

“I could see it coming. What is chapter 2?”

Isabella hesitated for only a second.

“If you like what you read and you think I have potential, I’d like you to allow me to become your assistant.”

“What makes you think I need an assistant?”

“I can tidy up your papers, type them, correct errors and mistakes—”

“Errors and mistakes?”

“I didn’t mean to imply that you make mistakes …”

“Then what did you mean to imply?”

“Nothing. But four eyes are better than two. And besides, I can take care of your correspondence, run errands, help with research. What’s more, I know how to cook and I can—”

“Are you asking for a position as assistant or cook?”

“I’m asking you to give me a chance.”

Isabella looked down. I couldn’t help but smile. Despite myself, I really liked this curious creature.

“This is what we’ll do. Bring me the best twenty pages you’ve written, the ones you think will show me what you are capable of. Don’t bring any more because I won’t read them. I’ll have a good look at them and then, depending on what I think, we’ll talk.”

Her face lit up and for a moment the veil of tension and toughness disappeared.

“You won’t regret it,” she said.

She stood up and looked at me nervously.

“Is it all right if I bring the pages round to your house?”

“Leave them in my letter box. Is that all?”

She nodded vigorously and backed away with those short, nervous steps. When she was about to turn and start running, I called her.

“Isabella?”

Her meek eyes clouded with sudden anxiety.

“Why me?” I asked. “And don’t tell me it’s because I’m your favorite author or any of that other flattery Sempere advised you to use to soften me up, because if you do this will be the first and last conversation we ever have.”

Isabella hesitated for a moment. Then she replied with disarming bluntness.

“Because you’re the only writer I know.”

She gave me an embarrassed smile and went off with her notebook, her unsteady walk, and her frankness. I watched her turn the corner of Calle Mirallers and vanish behind the cathedral.

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