Chapter 5 New Inspiration
The moment Prince Cassian and his armored entourage disappeared up the wide timber staircase, the heavy tension in the room snapped like a stretched rubber band.
The courtiers immediately resumed their loud, cheerful chatter. Goblets of dark wine were poured, plates of Honey’s freshly baked pastries were passed around, and the grand hall settled back into a bustling, warm tavern atmosphere.
I stood near the bottom of the stairs, completely frozen, watching the whole surreal scene unfold.
Blossom turned back toward me, tucked her brass key ring into her emerald dress pocket, and let out a long, satisfied sigh.
“Well! That went smoothly. Cassian is always much easier to deal with when he isn’t fresh off a three-day ride.”
I snapped out of my daze and marched straight up to her, keeping my voice low so the nearby noblemen wouldn’t hear me.
“Blossom,” I demanded, crossing my arms tightly over my velvet robe. “What was that? Is he actually a prince? And where on earth did he come from? I saw a doorway back there that opened into a sky with two moons!”
Blossom offered me a soothing, maternal smile and reached out to pat my shoulder.
“Maisie, dear, look at your eyes. You look exhausted, and you’ve had a very shocking fifteen minutes.”
“I am not exhausted, Blossom. I am completely losing my mind,” I corrected her firmly. “There were guys with swords! A portal in the wall! A bird singing animated-movie music!”
“And all of it will still be here in seven hours,” Blossom said gently, her tone completely unbothered. “Get some sleep, Maisie. I promise you, over a fresh pot of coffee and Honey’s cinnamon brioche tomorrow morning, I will explain every single thing. From the threshold to Prince Cassian to your grandmother’s little secret.”
I stared at her, searching her face for any sign that she was pulling a massive prank on me. But her warm hazel eyes were entirely calm.
“Coffee?” I pressed.
“The strongest pot I can brew,” Blossom swore. “Now, off to bed.”
I let out a heavy breath, knowing I wasn’t going to get anything else out of her tonight.
“Fine. But if I wake up tomorrow and find out you all hypnotized me, I’m cutting your pastry budget.”
Blossom chuckled warmly and waved me off as she turned to assist a courtier asking for extra blankets.
I turned and headed back toward the left wing. As I walked down the corridor, I paused near the far archway.
The hallway had definitely expanded earlier, and now I noticed a sleek, heavy oak door tucked into an alcove I was ninety percent sure hadn’t existed at noon. It led directly toward the upper level of the west wing—the exact direction Prince Cassian and his entourage had headed.
I stared at the closed door for a few seconds, half expecting a tall guard with a sword to pop out and demand my credentials. When nothing happened, I slipped back into my bedroom and locked the heavy door securely behind me.
I leaned my back against the wood and let out a long, shaky breath.
My bedroom was completely quiet. The four-poster bed sat waiting beneath its soft linen curtains. The French doors leading out to the terrace showed the dark, quiet outline of the fruit garden beneath a single, familiar moon.
I walked over to the nightstand. The digital clock read 12:24 a.m., ticking away normally as if the world hadn’t just tilted on its axis twenty minutes ago.
I sat down on the edge of the mattress, fully intending to pull the covers up and go straight to sleep. My brain was running a mile a minute, trying to process portals, royal houses, and brooding dark-haired men in silver-embroidered coats.
Then I looked over at my laptop, sitting closed on the small vintage desk.
The writer inside me—the stubborn, opportunistic creative who had been starved of inspiration for six straight months—woke up with a violent jolt.
“No way,” I whispered to myself. “There is absolutely no way I’m sleeping right now.”
I flipped open the laptop, pulled out the desk chair, and jammed my fingers onto the keyboard.
The words didn’t just flow—they practically exploded out of me.
I scrapped the vague, generic villain I had outlined earlier for Chapter Seven. Instead, I typed furiously, creating a scene where my female protagonist stumbled into a hidden stone hall at midnight, only to come face-to-face with a sharp-tongued, stoic prince surrounded by towering guards.
I gave him dark hair that curled slightly at the neck and sharp blue eyes that could penetrate a soul. I wrote the exact dialogue Cassian and I had just exchanged down in the hall—the deadpan arrogance, the deliberate refusal to bow, the dry, infuriating smirk that made my female protagonist’s blood boil, both from annoyance and the unwelcome attraction she felt.
Which, by the way, hadn’t happened in reality downstairs.
It was pure gold.
It was fast, addictive, and entirely entertaining.
By the time I finally finished polishing Chapters Eight and Nine, the eastern sky outside my terrace doors was beginning to turn a soft, pale lavender. I checked the word count in the bottom corner of the document.
12,400 words.
I let out a hysterical, breathless laugh.
I had written more in six hours than I had in the previous four months.
I pulled up my email draft, attached the fresh chapters, and sent them to Eleanor with a short note:
Maisie: Chapters 7, 8, and 9 attached. Introduced a new character: a broody prince with major attitude issues. Tell me if the banter works.
I closed the laptop, stretched my aching back until my spine popped, and stumbled over to the big four-poster bed. I collapsed onto the soft mattress, kicked off my loafers, and pulled the heavy duvet up to my chin.
As my eyelids grew heavy, my mind kept drifting back to those sharp blue eyes looking down at me from the center of the hall.
Was Prince Cassian real? Was there actually a magical realm attached to my grandmother’s quiet countryside inn, or had my overworked, sleep-deprived brain simply manufactured the ultimate fantasy delusion to fix my writer’s block?
I guess I’ll find out at breakfast, I thought, sinking deep into the pillows as sleep finally claimed me.
