<– The Green Sign Antique Shop on Portobello Street –>
#1.
There are two types of writers in the world.
Writers who keep writing,
…and writers who can only write one work in their entire lives.
Anne Selin was definitely the latter.
Over 20 years ago, Anne Selin’s first work, *The Princess and the Knight*, recorded a phenomenal hit. The story was simple. There were only two characters.
A beautiful princess with burning red hair,
and a blonde knight who fell in love with her at first sight.
The knight fell in love with the beautiful princess at first sight and proposed to her. The princess responded to the knight.
“If you wait for me day and night under my balcony for 100 days, I will believe in your love and marry you.”
From that day on, the knight sat in front of the princess’s castle without moving, waiting for her. Whether it snowed or rained, he didn’t leave.
And on the night of the 99th day, with just one night left, the knight left the princess’s castle.
The story ends there. Such a futile end. But people burned with more passion for it. Various debates arose regarding the conclusion.
Why did the knight leave the princess with one day left?
Did the princess love the knight too?
Did the two meet again?
Letters from readers hoping for a sequel flooded the publishing house. However, the author remained silent to any question. Thus, 10 years passed and 20 years passed. The name of the faceless author, ‘Anne Selin,’ seemed to be forgotten.
But after 20 years, Anne Selin wrote her next work. Not just the next work, but the continuation of *The Princess and the Knight*. It was a miracle that the manuscript arrived in front of Cordelia Gray, a newly graduated editor.
The first manuscript that came under her name, and it was a sequel to a famous work that anyone would recognize by name. When Cordelia first held the manuscript, her hands trembled with disbelief at this fortune.
Cordelia herself could not exactly remember with what feelings she read the manuscript and wrote the proposal. She only read and reread the short initial manuscript along with the character setting book until it was worn out. And when she came to her senses, she was in this place now.
Yes, this place now.
Now Cordelia was waiting in front of the editor-in-chief Marianne’s office, having handed over the manuscript and proposal to her. Had she been lingering in front of the door for about an hour, something finally started to be heard from the quiet editor-in-chief’s office.
Rustle,
Rustle,
Rustle,
and then thud.
Everyone at Bloomsbell Publishing knows this sound.
The sound of editor-in-chief Marianne crumpling and throwing away a manuscript she didn’t like.
– * *
“It’s trash.”
“The previous work was an enormous success, though?”
“That was because of the illustrations. The illustrations were good.”
“The writing is good too.”
“From the perspective of 20 years ago, maybe.”
“It has been selling continuously for 20 years. Do you know how many copies this work sold last year?”
Cordelia handed over the documents she had prepared, but Marianne scoffed without even looking.
“Just because it sold well doesn’t mean the next work will sell well too.”
“Editor, people are still curious about what happens next.”
“Let them keep wondering. Cordelia Gray, do you know why this trashy novel has been selling like hotcakes for 20 years?”
“…Because it’s interesting?”
“No, it ends with a question mark. Why did the knight leave? Why with just one day left? Did they meet again? It’s intriguing.”
“Right, it’s intriguing. So doesn’t that mean we need the next story?”
“No, we don’t. It’s better not to publish something like this. If we do, the sales of the previous work will plummet.”
There have been cases where a sequel actually decreased the sales of the original work. While Cordelia pondered what to say, Marianne quickly continued.
“No one wants to read a follow-up story where the princess goes to find the knight.”
“I was curious. People who were waiting for the sequel like me will definitely like it.”
“They’ll only like it if it makes sense. Is the princess some kind of commando? Why would she go find the knight alone? Trek through the forest barefoot? Swim across a lake for ten days? It doesn’t make sense.”
“That’s, um, poetic license… or rather literary license, isn’t it? Fairy tales have that kind of thing.”
“Oh, how generous. Why are you so eager to push this work? Did you write it yourself?”
“It’s a good piece.”
“What’s good about it? I didn’t like this story even 20 years ago. It’s an overall implausible story. There are many unexplained parts. And…”
“…And it’s romantic, right? That’s why it succeeded.”
Marianne couldn’t deny that. Instead, she clicked her tongue and said,
“A romantic dead writer.”
‘One-hit wonder.’
‘Dead writer.’
At the publishing house, that’s what they called writers who vanished after one successful work. Marianne knew well how rare it was for a contact from such a dead writer to lead to publication and success.
However, despite numerous rejections, Cordelia replied with a bright smile.
“I know there are few cases of dead writers making a comeback with a sequel. But this work won’t be like that.”
“What makes you so confident?”
“As you said, there are parts lacking plausibility and the development might be too old-fashioned for modern readers. But it has a charm that outweighs those flaws. This book is ‘genuine’.”
“Where did you learn to say that? ‘Genuine’ book…”
“If you’re hesitant to publish it as a book, how about posting it on a webzine first? It’s less burdensome since it’s online, and if the response is good, we can publish it as a book. How about it?”
Cordelia’s large green eyes were full of passion only a first-year editor could have. Marianne shook her head.
“Fine.”
“Yes? By ‘fine,’ you mean….”
“Proceed. But you still have to do all your regular tasks. At least we’ll break even.”
“I’ll work overtime on top of my regular tasks! Thank you. Thank you!”
“No need for thanks. You’d have to work overtime anyway.”
“Yes, of course, of course.”
Little did I know then that the author Anne Selin would become such a nuisance.
I should have anticipated when the first submission came by mail, not email. It seemed ‘email correspondence’ was not in this author’s vocabulary. Even when asked for an email address or phone number, Anne Selin responded with a white paper inside a yellow envelope stamped by the post office.
[I don’t have a phone number. I don’t have an email address either.]
It was unclear whether she genuinely didn’t know or was implying in a roundabout way that ‘email addresses don’t exist in her world.’
“Wait, no computer?”
When Cordelia grumbled like that, Garrett, sitting next to her, waved his hand.
“There are still many old-fashioned writers who work by hand.”
“Even in this day and age?”
“A writer whose last publication was 20 years ago? To someone from that era, writing meant using a pencil. Tell them to bring it directly to the publishing house. Or you go yourself, Cordelia.”
“Still, isn’t it a bit strange not to have an email or phone number?”
“Maybe they have a phone phobia. No email, no phone, so face-to-face it is. Well, it’s not like there’s a set publication date yet, so it’s not urgent. But the writer doesn’t claim they don’t have a house, right?”
“No way.”
And that “no way” caught up with Cordelia. A week later, another old-fashioned envelope arrived for Cordelia at Bloomsbell Publishing. It was written in typewriter font:
[I don’t have a home address.]
Do you even exist, author?
Suppressing the urge to shout, Cordelia read the next line.
[Fortunately, there is a place where you can collect the manuscript. There is an antique shop with a green sign at the end of Portobello Street. Go there this Wednesday at 7 PM. No other day or time will do. You must go then. A rather handsome male employee will be waiting for you there. Receive the manuscript from him.]
“This person lives in a fairy tale.”
Garrett, who was peeking at the letter from his cubicle, chuckled again.
During lunch, gossip and jokes about the writer without a computer, phone, or house continued. Editor-in-chief Marianne clicked her tongue as if to say “I told you so,” and Garrett teased Cordelia with encouragement.
“Still, they said a rather handsome male employee would be there? That writer knows how to allure people.”
“Indeed.”
“Want me to go with you? We can’t let our Cordelia meet a handsome man alone.”
“No, it’s after work, and all I have to do is pick up the manuscript. No big deal.”
“You’re in for it, Cordelia Gray. This is going to be a real hassle.”
“To be honest, by now, it doesn’t even feel like a hassle. Instead of using email or phone, they entrust the manuscript to a charming employee at a regular shop—it’s kind of romantic, isn’t it?”
“Wow, romantic? You’re still unspoiled! Is a rookie editor like you a unicorn? Wendy, Steve, Editor Marianne, did you hear what Cordelia just said?”
“Oh, stop calling everyone. I was just saying. Let’s try to think positively. Sure, it’s a hassle. But…”
Just two months senior to her, Garrett pretended to know everything and act like a mentor. Cordelia quickly changed the subject to avoid his teasing. But saying it was ‘kind of romantic’ wasn’t just a comforting remark or a joke.
Leaving the manuscript at an antique shop felt like a treasure hunt, didn’t it?
However, saying such a thing aloud would only make her a target for more teasing.
Fortunately, it was already Wednesday, and after work, a treasure hunt at the green sign antique shop awaited her. For now, all Cordelia could do was patiently hide her ballooning excitement and wait for the end of the workday.
* * *
To get from Bloomsbell Publishing to Portobello Market, you have to pass a large road lined with plane trees on both sides. On a breezy day, the light green summer leaves rustle welcomingly—a friendly street.
Cordelia called this “the plane trees’ greeting.” Of course, she didn’t say this out loud in front of people, just to herself. She wasn’t that far gone.
As the bus entered the alley with the plane trees’ greeting, an unknown tree at the corner glistened silver in the sunlight. Cordelia picked up her phone to look up the tree’s name but soon gave up. Instead of breaking the mood with a complex, rigid scientific name, she decided to call this street “Silver Tree Road.”
Saying such things aloud might get her compared to Anne of Green Gables, but what did it matter? Keeping these thoughts to herself wasn’t bad.
The road was unusually clear today, and Cordelia found the green sign shop much earlier than expected. Though there were quite a few fake antique shops on this street selling dubious items as if they were from the Victorian era, this place seemed more genuine. However, when she opened the shop door, the brightness on her face wasn’t just because of the shop’s atmosphere.
There was indeed a ridiculously handsome employee.
———= Author’s Note ———=
I hope you enjoyed reading. Please like, recommend, and follow. I’ll bring another chapter tomorrow morning.
<– –>