At first Bill barely acknowledged her, but then he glanced back. “All dressed up, are we, Miss Worcester? Does that mean you’re breaking your silence? Are we going to see some little dancing animals?”
Bird gritted her teeth. Bill insisted on calling all women older than he was by their surnames, and used Miss for divorced women as well as single ones. He reserved first names for women younger than himself—or, as Godiva had muttered once, date-bait.
“No dancing animals,” Bird said, forcing another smile. She wished there was an equivalent to Miss for single men, divorced or otherwise. She took a seat as far as possible from Bill and also from Cassandra, a regular who probably meant well, but tended to give out unwanted and unhelpful advice.
The last regular, a college-aged poet, came in and bent to take out his laptop, his beaded dreadlocks swinging.
Doris, who had been voted this year’s moderator, said firmly before Bill could speak, “Who has pages?”
“I do,” Linette replied.
Bird tried to squash a stab of disappointment. So much for her trying not to have expectations—
The bell on the door tinkled sweetly, and Professor Long stepped in.
A surge of joy lit up inside Bird.
“Welcome to—” Doris began.
Bill overrode her. “Hey, a newbie! Grab yourself a seat. Tomas, if you shift over . . .”
He went on with unnecessary directions as Mikhail nodded thanks at Bill, but took the empty chair beside Jen. He smiled at Bird, sending a wave of warmth and happiness through her.
Doris cleared her throat. Loudly, she said, “Welcome to the Baker Street Writers’ Group.”
Mikhail smiled. “Thank you!”
Bill opened his mouth, but Godiva shot him a glare that would have reduced a more sensitive person to a heap of smoking ash, then said to Mikhail, “Professor Long, right?”
“Mikhail Long. You can call me Mikhail, if everyone else is using first names.”
“Mikhail, didn’t you say you’re a writer?” Doris asked in an encouraging tone.
He sent a warm smile around the room, his gaze stopping at Bird. “I recently published an academic book on the symbolism in Chinese jade toggles—little carvings that hung with silk tassles from nobles’ belts—and how that influenced the development of Japanese netsuke. However, unless anyone is excited about that subject, I promise not to say anything more. I came intending to be an audience.”
Bird felt a flood of warmth at his words. He was just so nice.
Doris turned to Jen. “Why don’t you start us off? You mentioned a brand new idea.”
Bird held her breath. Ever since Jen had lost her husband of nearly forty years the summer before last, it had seemed like only a shell of Jen was still with them. What made her essentially herself was missing. But if she’d started writing again, maybe that meant she was coming back.
“A new investigative essay?” Linette asked. “I loved the one you did on the ecology of the rainforest.”
“No . . .” Jen’s cheeks colored under her pewter-colored hair. “I actually . . .”
“Well, if you’re not ready,” Bill stated. “I have here my latest—”
Godiva cut in. “C’mon, Jen. Those pages you showed me yesterday had me sucked right in, and you know I’ve never been much for fantasy.”
Jen looked up, a tentative smile lighting her face.
Bird thought, I don’t think I’ve seen her smile for months.
“Okay,” Jen said softly. “Some of you know that Lord of the Rings was pretty formative for me as a teenager. Don’t worry, this isn’t elves and orcs. It’s like . . . the earth as it could have been if the alchemists of the Renaissance had actually discovered magic, and could speak to spirits and other life forms. If the magic they were always trying to do was real. I just have a few pages . . .”
Jen began to read. Her heroine, Maria Elisabetta, was a nun who was also a scholar and an alchemist. She was getting ready to perform a dangerous alchemical ritual to summon a fire spirit. If she made a single mistake, she might go up in flames herself.
Jen’s quiet voice gained in force and expressiveness as her protagonist finished chalking the circle on the stone floor. The description was so vivid that Bird could see it clearly—could have sketched it as Maria Elisabetta took off her habit so it wouldn’t brush out the lines or stray beyond the circle.