It was on the corner of West 44th and Madison that the rejection really sank in. Charlotte exhaled heavily, clutching the manuscript to her shivering frame. Paul Marcus, head of one of the most powerful publishing firms in New York, had just chewed her up and spat her out onto the frigid December sidewalk.

“I’m such an idiot,” she sighed to herself, signaling a cab. He had asked her to summarize her manuscript, and what had she said?

“Um… it’s like… the Odyssey. Except kind of not. You know?”

Brilliant.

And the look he had given her. And the silence. The silence was the worst part.

No, it wasn’t. When he had handed her manuscript back to her and told her perhaps she should revise the entire thing, that had been the worst part.

….

“Sir, show yourself!” Alexia screeched, sword drawn. The blade sparkled in the light of the moon, and its wielder waited tensely for the monster to appear.

With a cruel smirk playing on his thin lips, Lord Marcus appeared. Just like Alexia had heard, one of his eyes was covered by an eye patch.

“Well, well, well… Alexia Argyris,” he drawled, his good eye focused on the sword in her hand. “It has been a long time. You’re all grown up.”

“Marcus, you killed my comrades!” she said coldly. “You killed and ate them, you cannibal!”

“I didn’t eat all of them,” Marcus said innocently, eyes wide. Then, his smirk returned. “But the ones I did eat…” He smacked his lips. “Delicious.”

With a cry of disgust and rage, Alexia charged forward.

….

Her long fingers paused indecisively over the keyboard. After a moment of holding that position, she retracted her hand, setting it softly in her lap. The apartment was dark, save for the insistent, blue glow of the computer screen.

“What’s the point?” Charlotte whispered. She could feel the tears slide down her face, but did nothing to wipe them away.

Silence hung precariously in the air, the kind of silence that can be achieved only at three o’clock in the morning. Silence, and then a voice.

“How goes it?” Calliope murmured in her ear. Charlotte sighed, and turned to look at the muse.

“I’m stuck,” she said quietly. “Paul Marcus said it wasn’t good enough.” She looked back at the screen, wiping her tears away. “I mean, look at this crap,” she laughed mirthlessly. “It’s like The Odyssey meets Sweeney Todd.” More tears started, and Charlotte sobbed, bringing her forehead to her knees. “I’m not good enough,” she whispered. “I’m not good enough.”

Calliope was silent for a few moments. “Did you delete everything?”

“Most of it. It was all awful, anyways.”

The other woman sighed exasperatedly. “Lotte, you’re never going to get published if you keep rewriting the thing.”

“I’m never going to get published no matter what I do,” Charlotte snapped.

All the muse said before disappearing was, “Of course you won’t, with that attitude.” And then she was gone. Once more, Charlotte began to write.

….

She heard the chirping of birds, melodically dancing through the luxurious palace.

“Where are my friends?” Alexia asked quietly. Even with the magic protecting her, she felt weak under the handsome man’s gaze. “Who are you?”

His lips twitched in a heart-melting smile, his pure green eyes flickering like a flame—dangerous, but enticing at the same time. Gently, he touched Alexia’s cheek. “They are the birds, my dear,” he informed her, almost tenderly. Before Alexia could protest at this horrid crime (and she was most certainly about to), he laid a soft kiss upon her lips.

“Call me Christopher.”

….

Eventually, Charlotte finished. Again.

Her printer whirred unhappily as it printed page after page after page, but Charlotte paid no attention to it. It was already nine o’clock in the morning, and she needed to get going. She needed to take the subway to get to the publishing district, and even the subway was a bit of a walk.

The subway was uncomfortably crowded. Everyone needed to be somewhere, and they were all leaving at nine o’clock. Protectively, Charlotte held the manuscript to herself. But yet, she still managed to drop it, just as the train reached its first stop. The papers scattered, and Charlotte let out a high-pitched shriek, instantaneously throwing herself to the ground to gather her story and cursing the gods of the winds at the same time. Thankfully, kind people still existed, and they helped her collect the three hundred or so papers.

The subway took her to Grand Central Terminal on 42nd Street, which was less than a mile from the publishing district. It was snowing, and icy, but she ran despite the conditions. Her shoes had traction.

….

Alexia ran furiously, knowing what was at stake—her life, the lives of her friends, her home. It could all be lost in an instant… so she ran. Run, Alexia, run.

….

Charlotte ran until she reached the publishing house. She looked up, eyeing the large letters proudly proclaiming the building to be Ithaca Press.

“You can do it,” Calliope whispered, and Charlotte took a deep breath.

She stepped inside.

….

Alexia took a deep breath, and started towards home.

….

Dear Dad,

I was published. I got a book deal with Ithaca Press, and they want me to write a prequel based on the Trojan war.

I was published, I was published, I was published.

Charlotte

….

Alexia was home.