Chapter 27

PEN

Neil tumbled right over the stairs. Pen looked out and wondered, Could I have stopped this? But down and down he went, short, melodic thump-thump s as his body crashed into the stairs, head and arms and legs at awkward angles.

It all happened so quickly and was over just as soon. His limbs were limp when he rolled to a stop, landing with a soft thump a few stairs from the bottom of the staircase.

"Neil? Neil!" She rushed down the stairs, falling to her knees and cupping his face in her hands.

His eyes moved rapidly behind his eyelids, a low groan at the back of his throat, but he did not wake. Pen searched the area frantically, and within seconds, the others were there. Laszlo was quick to stoop down and help lift him toward the couch in the study after checking that nothing seemed broken. Daniela was not far behind.

Grunting with the effort, they dumped him on the leather. He sort of flopped onto it, moaning as Pen carefully cradled his head, slipping a pillow beneath and propping him up. She knelt beside the couch and smoothed a hand over his curls, stomach churning. They should have been more careful. They knew about the danger, and even still they'd wandered into that room without a plan or any precautions. Sighing, she stood and backed away, arms crossed tight over her chest as she glanced around the study.

She felt useless.

"What happened?" Laszlo asked, taking the ice Daniela offered and settling the cloth-wrapped bundle atop Neil's head.

Pen's lips parted as she fought for an answer. Should she tell them the truth? Would they even believe her? Being pushed by a ghost sounded suddenly ridiculous.

"We were in the west wing," she started slowly. "He… sort of tripped backward and hit his head pretty hard in the hall. I was trying to help him down the stairs when he lost his balance and fell."

"Why were you two in the west wing?" Laszlo narrowed his eyes. "Did you not listen to Fanny on the tour? The west wing is strictly off-limits for our own safety. Clearly. "

Pen flinched. She understood more than ever why Fanny had warned them against it, but it only made Pen more curious. She simply couldn't refuse the temptation. Like the sign taunting her at the castle ruins.

"They were probably trying to do it in every room before the end of the week," Daniela said. "Not that I blame them. I would, too, if Zoe were here."

"The images ingrained in my brain," Laszlo groaned.

Daniela shrugged and fished out her wallet before she slapped a bill into Laszlo's hand. "You win this round."

Pen opened her mouth to retort, but the fight was drained out of her. She shook her head, grinding her teeth as she motioned to Neil. "Do you think he'll be okay? It looked really bad."

Laszlo scratched his neck, standing. "It's hard to know. None of us are doctors, and he tumbled down the staircase. I don't think anything is broken, but…" He shrugged. "We won't know until he wakes up. Maybe we should get ahold of Fanny and call it quits." He gripped her shoulder gently as he moved past her. "In the meantime, keep an eye on him, okay?"

Pen nodded, sinking into the chair beside the couch.

With her hands in her lap, Pen watched them go. When Laszlo and Daniela had disappeared around the corner, Pen leaned forward, head in her hands. She tugged on her hair, trying to keep the tears at bay. Everything was a mess. Why they were still keeping the ghosts a secret, she couldn't really say. They weren't safe, and if they weren't safe, then Laszlo and Daniela weren't safe. Georgina could touch them, hurt them. If there was any reason to believe they were in danger, what happened to Neil was proof enough.

And Pen needed Neil now more than ever.

Sighing, she sat up and wiped at her eyes, focusing on him. She concentrated on the way his hair had been pushed up from his forehead, exposing that silver scar across his brow. She swept her thumb over it, the skin just barely raised beneath her finger.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "For not believing in you, and for refusing to understand where you were coming from sooner." She licked her lips, blinking back more tears. "It's kind of funny. I'm not even sure why I'm crying or why this hurts so much, but I want you to know that, for all those years, I looked up to you. I wanted to be like you and write the books that you were writing. I absolutely loathe telling you this, but… I was jealous ."

She laughed, short and brisk. "I hated you because I would never be as good as you are, so when you wrote For What Savages May Be, I was devastated. And I guess also relieved? This Native horror author, one of the only other recognized Indigenous authors in our genre, had sunken to do the biddings of the publishing industry. I was heartbroken and elated. For me and all the other Indigenous authors and readers around the world who looked up to you. I think part of me was also happy because I thought it meant I finally had a chance to become someone, to make something of myself.

"But I was so wrong, Neil. Everyone loved that book. They thought you were some genius for it. And me? I was just a grumpy, washed-up wannabe with nothing to her name."

It hurt to say aloud, but even if it was only to herself, it brought a bit of peace. Because it was true. She should have been supporting him, being a friend, raving about his books, quietly approaching him before he ruined his own career, but instead she'd been sulking, waiting for him to fail so she could take up the reins.

In the end, it all blew up in her face. Which she deserved. God, she was terrible. Pen made to pull away, but his hand caught hers, holding it to his cheek.

"You're awake," she accused. She should be happy to hear that he wasn't in a coma or something altogether terrible, but he'd heard every word, hadn't he? "How much did you hear?"

"Hmm," he whispered, eyes still closed. "Enough."

"You're a little shit, you know that?"

"Quite possibly." He shifted slightly, groaning. "It's nice of you to say, though. I didn't think anyone looked up to me." He smiled crookedly. "Can you imagine? Me, a hero ."

"Of course people look up to you!" She pulled her hand free, holding it in her lap as if he'd burned her. "You're Neil Storm. Like you said, you're a household name. People know your books. They're the first thing you see when you walk into Barnes and Noble. They're on the ads in Target, celebrated in every single place that sells books. You have turned yourself into a legend."

He peeled open his eyes, angling his head to look at her. "And so have you."

She snorted. "Yeah, for throwing a book at your head."

Grunting, he used his arm to prop himself up, curls falling haphazardly over his eyes. "No." He shook his head and groaned, running a hand through his hair. "For telling the truth. So often, we look at other BIPOC artists and praise them for doing good. And yes, rep is important, but when we let go of what is most important to us and start writing for people other than ourselves, when we start compromising our art, what's the point? And you didn't, Penelope. Never once did you compromise what you stand for, and look at you."

"You're the only one who thinks any of this." She pressed a hand to her chest, fingers curling into her sweater. "You're the only one who cares about my writing."

He glanced up at her from beneath his curls. "I know we're told not to look ourselves up on the internet. I know we're told to keep away, but you need to see this."

Neil searched his pockets for his phone. There was a long crack across the screen, but he waved his hand dismissively as he tapped, scrolled down, tapped again, and then handed it over. Pen took it with a frown, scanning the screen. Her heart thudded. The thread read Penelope Skinner, Hero of the Book World.

He motioned for her to flick through them, and she swiped to the left, breath catching. There were dozens of screenshots, as if he'd collected them for her over the last four months. Pictures and videos and GIFs. People posted photos of themselves with her book, with her, and at her events. And not even one of them hated her. No one said that she was in the wrong. Some joked that maybe she shouldn't have thrown a book, but they didn't blame her for it in the least.

"All these people." Her heart was in her throat, her vision blurring with tears as she met those emerald eyes. "I thought they hated me."

"You'd be surprised how many people are rooting for you to make a comeback."

Pen couldn't help it; hope surged in her. She wasn't alone. She'd assumed the world had made her into a villain, but she never stopped to think that a group of people might have sided with her.

Handing his phone back, Pen glanced to the hall, to what she could see of the painting of Georgina from where she was sitting. Courageous, that's what Neil kept calling her. Penelope Skinner was courageous. She didn't back down from a fight. And though it terrified her, she suddenly knew what she was meant to do. What she was always meant to do. She stood, her fingers tapping against her thigh as she smiled and shook her head. She pictured the young woman by the window upstairs, the hint of pain in those silver eyes. The girl she'd been, in love and desperate.

"I'm sorry, I have to go," Pen said as she bent down and kissed his cheek.

Neil grazed her hand with his. "Where are you going?" he called, swinging his legs over the couch with a grimace.

Pen paused in the hall and glanced back at him. She remembered the way Georgina had leaned close. The ghost had steered Neil out of the room long enough to tell her . This was always the way it was meant to be. This was how she got it all back.

This was how she got her story, how she'd climb her way out of the hole she'd dug for herself and prove everyone in publishing wrong. This was how she'd make it out on top for the first time in her life.

This was how Pen redeemed herself.

Pen smiled as something settled inside her. She shivered pleasantly, her hand tightening on the doorframe. Sighing, she knocked against the wood and turned to go.

"I'm going to be the hero."