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CHLOE

I spent the entire weekend rearranging my study, trying to transform it from "witch's chaotic research lair" to "professional editor's workspace.

" This mostly involved hiding my more questionable grimoires behind respectable literary classics and pretending the burn mark on my desk was from a candle and not from that time I accidentally summoned a small fire demon while trying to heat up leftovers.

"What about this?" Frosty appeared in the doorway, holding what looked like a fountain pen made from a peacock feather. "Guaranteed to increase intellectual acuity by sixteen percent."

"Where did you even get that?" I asked, eyeing the suspicious shimmer around its nib.

"Won it in a poker game with that warlock who runs the antique shop." Frosty placed it ceremoniously on my desk. "Never lost a hand while holding it."

"So it's a cheating pen?"

"I prefer 'luck enhancement writing implement.

'" He scurried behind me and started adjusting my chair height for the third time that morning.

"Ergonomics are essential for peak cognitive function.

My cousin knew a hen who developed terrible posture from improper perching.

Ended up with a permanent lean to the left. "

"I'm pretty sure chicken anatomy and human office ergonomics aren't comparable."

"Tell that to my cousin Henrietta." He squinted critically at my desk arrangement. "Your monitor should be exactly at eye level. Also, your coffee mug should be on the left for optimal hydration-to-typing ratio."

"That's not a thing."

"Is too. I read it in 'Productivity Quarterly.'"

My laptop pinged with a new email notification. From Lincoln.

"It's here," I whispered, suddenly feeling like I might throw up the anxiety-pancakes Frosty had insisted on making me for breakfast.

"Well, open it!" Frosty hopped onto the desk, nearly knocking over my "luck enhancement writing implement."

I clicked open the email.

Chloe,

I've selected this manuscript specifically for you. The author shows promise but needs guidance from someone with your perceptive eye. No pressure - just your honest assessment.

- Lincoln

Attached was a fantasy manuscript titled "The Witch's Familiar."

"Is he serious?" I muttered, downloading the file.

I opened the document and read the first paragraph:

Moonlight cascaded like liquid silver through the ancient forest, dancing upon the witch's flowing ebony locks as she gracefully pirouetted among the mystical toadstools, her emerald eyes glistening with unshed tears of magical power.

I reached for the peacock pen without thinking.

"Well?" Frosty peered at my screen.

"This," I said, uncapping the pen with newfound purpose, "needs work."

Three hours later, I'd forgotten about Frosty's ergonomic adjustments, Lincoln's expectations, and even the questionable magical properties of my new pen. The manuscript had pulled me in—not because it was good (it wasn't), but because I could see exactly how to make it better.

I finally surfaced from my editing trance when Frosty slammed a plate of sandwiches on the desk, narrowly missing my laptop.

"You've been muttering to yourself for four hours," he said. "Started speaking in editor shorthand. Kept saying things like 'passive voice' and 'purple prose' while making angry slashing motions."

I blinked, realizing my hand cramped from writing. The document before me bloomed with comments, strikethroughs, and suggestions. "I think I'm actually good at this."

"Shocking revelation," Frosty deadpanned. "Now eat something before you—" His eyes widened. "What time is it?"

I glanced at the clock. "Three-fifteen, why?"

"Jezfucnuboobles!" I shrieked, nearly knocking over my chair. "The video conference is at three-thirty!"

"I reminded you an hour ago! You grunted and said 'just one more paragraph.'"

I flew to my bedroom, yanking open drawers. "What do editors even wear? Professional but not stuffy? Creative but not weird?"

"Definitely not that," Frosty commented as I held up a faded Metallica t-shirt.

Three outfit changes later, I settled on a simple black blouse that said "I'm professional but won't judge you for using too many adverbs." My hair, however, had formed an alliance with chaos.

"You look fine," Frosty insisted, shoving me back toward the study. "Besides, they're book people. Their bar for personal appearance is 'did you remember pants?'"

I scrambled to my desk just as my laptop chimed. I clicked to accept the video call, but instead of Lincoln's face, I got a black screen with "Audio connection failed" flashing red.

"No, no, no!" I jabbed at keys randomly.

"Stop panicking," Frosty hopped onto the desk. "Let me fix it." He pecked at several keys with his beak.

The screen went blue. Then displayed a beach screensaver I'd never seen before. Then started playing what sounded suspiciously like a polka version of "Highway to Hell."

"What did you do?" I hissed.

"I'm implementing advanced troubleshooting techniques," Frosty insisted, pecking another key. The screen flipped upside down.

My phone rang. Lincoln.

"Technical difficulties?" he asked, amusement warming his voice.

"My familiar thinks he's IT support."

"I've rescheduled for five minutes from now. Try turning it off and on again."

Five excruciatingly long minutes later, I stared at a screen filled with professionally dressed people, all watching me expectantly.

"Everyone, this is Chloe Woolsworth, our brilliant new acquisition," Lincoln announced.

A woman with steel-gray hair and sharper eyes spoke first. "Your notes on Elizbeth Chen's manuscript, "The Midnight Garden" were... unexpected."

My stomach dropped. "Too harsh?"

"Not at all," she said. "You identified precisely why it wasn't working. Most new editors try to be nice. You went straight for the jugular."

I forced a smile while my internal organs played musical chairs. Had I been too harsh? Too direct? I'd spent hours tearing that manuscript apart, convinced I was doing the right thing.

"Thank you?" I managed, my voice teetering between question and statement.

"Eleanor doesn't give compliments lightly," Lincoln added, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Or ever, actually."

Eleanor—apparently the steel-haired woman—made a dismissive gesture. "When something's worth doing, it's worth doing honestly. Your suggestion to restructure the protagonist's journey and eliminate the talking squirrel sidekick salvaged what might have been an unmarketable manuscript."

"The squirrel had potential," I defended, surprising myself. "Just not as the moral compass of the story. He worked better as the chaotic element that forced the protagonist to make difficult choices."

A man with thick glasses and a bowtie leaned forward. "Precisely what I said! The squirrel represents the protagonist's repressed desires!"

"Or it's just a squirrel with boundary issues," I muttered.

Unexpected laughter rippled through the screen. Even Eleanor's lips twitched.

Lincoln beamed at me with unmistakable pride, sending a warm flutter through my chest.

"We'd like you to take on two more manuscripts," Eleanor said. "Lincoln will send the details. Unless that's too much with your... other commitments?" Her pause suggested she knew exactly what my "other commitments" entailed—namely being a witch in a magical town.

"I can handle it," I said, ignoring Frosty's skeptical cluck from somewhere below the camera's view.

After discussing deadlines and expectations, the meeting concluded. Lincoln lingered after the others signed off.

"You were brilliant," he said. "They're notoriously hard to impress."

"So am I impressing your colleagues or editing books?" I asked. "Because those feel like different goals."

"Both. Neither." He ran a hand through his hair. "I wanted them to see what I see in you."

"A witch with control issues and a talking rooster?"

"A perceptive mind that cuts through pretense."

I stared at Lincoln's face on my screen, the warmth in his eyes making my apartment feel less empty.

After the video conference with his team, I'd spent the rest of the day with my nose buried in manuscript pages, losing track of time until Frosty had insisted I eat something besides coffee and anxiety.

"A perceptive mind that cuts through pretense," I repeated. "Is that a polite way of saying I'm judgmental?"

Lincoln laughed. "It's a compliment. Eleanor texted me after the meeting to say you're 'acceptably astute for someone so new.'"

"High praise from the literary dragon."

"The highest." His smile faded slightly. "I should let you go. You've had a long day."

I nodded, though I didn't want to end the call. "Good night, then."

"Good night, Chloe."

The screen went dark, leaving me staring at my own reflection. I sighed and closed my laptop.

My phone's insistent buzzing dragged me from a dream about editing a manuscript written entirely in interpretive dance notation. I fumbled for it in the darkness, squinting at the screen. Midnight. Lincoln.

"Hello?" I mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

"Did I wake you? I'm sorry."

I pushed myself upright, blinking away sleep.

Lincoln appeared on my screen, his usually immaculate appearance disheveled.

His tie hung loose around his neck, his hair stood in odd directions like he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly, and stacks of papers surrounded him like a paper fortress.

"You look terrible," I said, because tact abandoned me at midnight.

"Thanks. Just what every man wants to hear." He attempted a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"What's wrong?"

Lincoln sighed, loosening his tie further. "Berkshire Media has made an offer to buy my company."

"The publishing giant? That's... good, right?" I asked, though his expression suggested otherwise.

"It's complicated. The money is substantial, but they want to restructure everything. I'd need to stay in New York full-time for at least a year during the transition." He rubbed his eyes. "Possibly longer."