I am exhausted. My emotions have been through the wringer today. It was hard enough to deal with one woman of Freya’s caliber, but two? What was I thinking?
I found her last week ago—Kara Mullins, who is a writer of short stories and has already published one book with Freya’s company. Freya saw her in passing on her way to a meeting and was intrigued by the woman’s appearance and stance. She is a statuesque woman, dark-skinned, with bright blue hair and a wry smile to rival Freya’s own. I was intrigued by these things, too, but also by her aura, which was vibrant with tranquility, intelligence, and humor. I thought right away that she might get along well with Freya.
It took some maneuvering, but I managed to get a draft of Kara’s latest book, which is under review at the company for possible publication, onto Freya’s desk. My hope was that the two of them might get to know one another through this connection.
However, the beginning was not as promising as I might have hoped. My efforts caused a bit of a delay in the reading of Kara’s book, and she was not pleased by this. Freya got a call yesterday afternoon, as she was walking out the door, in fact. She politely explained to Kara the mix-up, and Kara politely asked whether or not Freya had had a chance to read the draft yet. Freya said that she had, although she had not yet finished it.
“Well, then, you won’t mind meeting me for lunch tomorrow to talk about it,” Kara said.
Freya minded very much—she had plans to meet Elliott today—but when she tried to tell Kara that she was busy, Kara cut her off.
“Ms. Cobb,” she said, still polite as ever, “I don’t mean to kick up a stir, but I was under the impression that this would already be done days ago. Now if you all don’t intend to publish the book, that’s fine, but I need to know by early next week or I will miss the deadline to submit it to my second choice. I promise I won’t take up much of your time, but I’m sure neither you nor your supervisor wants me to take my work elsewhere without both sides being certain that it’s the best.”
Freya rolled her eyes and sank back in her chair, but she knew she was trapped. Kara’s first book sold quite well—indeed, it is still selling quite well—and Freya knew that if she lost the second, she would hear nothing good about it.
So she cancelled her plans with Elliott, spent her evening last night speed-reading the draft, and arrived early to the agreed meeting place this afternoon. I was with her, of course, for I felt guilty for my part in the problem, and I was worried by the militant glint in Freya’s eye.
When Kara arrived, and the two women shook hands, sparks flew from where their auras met. Both women were aware that there was tension here, and they were both in the mood to meet that tension with open challenge. I have never seen such a competitive atmosphere.
“So first of all, Ms. Mullins—”
“Kara, please.”
“Kara, then. I have to say, I enjoyed this collection just as much as I did your first.”
“Oh, you read my debut?” Kara asked in mild surprise.
“Of course,” Freya replied, who had finished it the night before. “A really excellent work. The stories are cohesive, but each one stands on its own two feet, and they all had a powerful impact.” Freya gave the praise unironically—she did really enjoy both of Kara’s works, though she’d been irritated enough while reading them that this made her angry.
Kara frowned, not expecting the compliment. “Well, thank you.”
In this moment when she lowered her guard just a bit, Freya struck. “Still, I’m not entirely sure that your second collection fits as well into what we are looking for.”
Kara sat up a bit straighter. “I don’t understand.”
Freya set her hand on the folder sitting on the table before her. “The stories are compelling, full of beautiful imagery, just like your first collection…but the subject matter is more focused on the family, rather than the empowerment of a single woman. We’re a feminist publication, Kara—”
“And you think that the relationships between a woman and her family have nothing to do with her empowerment?” Kara was back on the field; she leaned over the table, eyes raised, measuring Freya’s reaction.
“Of course they do, but I wonder if your treatment of these relationships is empowering.” Freya opened the folder and flipped through the pages inside. “Take Madison, the protagonist of the fifth story. The story revolves around her relationship with her mother, and while the reader is never expressly told what her mother did, it’s heavily implied that it was something unforgivable. And yet Madison forgives her, more than once.”
Kara waited, as if expecting more to the question. “I’m confused, Miss Cobb—”
“Freya, please,” Freya insisted, with a flash of teeth.
Kara bared her own. “Freya, then. What exactly is your objection here? That Madison forgives her mother, or that this forgiveness doesn’t empower her? Because I hope I conveyed clearly that it is by forgiving her mother that Madison regains control of the relationship.”
“Does she, though?” Freya asked. “Or does she simply open herself up to more hurt in the future?”
On it went in this vein for some time—one sharp comment after another, delivered in silken, even tones. Kara and Freya argued pleasantly about the themes and topics addressed in the stories, and all the while their auras clashed and shoved at one another, until I was expecting either one of them to come across the table and fix her hands around the other’s throat.
The worst moment came about an hour into the meal, when a small silence fell. Kara was frowning at the page, her aura swirling with agitation, while Freya glowed with satisfaction, sure that she had proved herself the stronger of the two. Kara looked from the page to Freya’s face, and I braced myself to defend my charge.
And then suddenly the nervous energy drained away, and Kara began to laugh.
Freya and I both were unsettled by this shift. Kara tossed the page down on the table and leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. “Goddamn, woman,” she said. “You’re like a fucking pit bull.”
Freya’s spine elongated.
“That’s a compliment,” Kara added, and Freya bit back a sharp comment. “Tell me,” Kara went on, “what made you so mad at me? My wanting to meet on a Saturday? Or was it something else?”
Freya still didn’t know what to say.
“I know it’s me you’re mad at,” Kara explained, “because you could not have given such good feedback if you didn’t like my work.” She tapped the folder. “Damned if that wasn’t the most insightful and comprehensive analysis I’ve ever gotten on this. Maybe on anything.”
Now Freya could hear respect in her voice. She relaxed a bit. “It’s easy to give constructive feedback to something that’s as promising as this is.”
Kara nodded acknowledgment of the compliment. “But seriously,” she said, “you were just playing devil’s advocate earlier, right? Because you all are still my first choice to publish.”
“Oh, definitely I was,” Freya said, grinning. “No, my boss would kill me if I lost this book. But you’re right, I was sore about having to put this together last minute.”
I was surprised that Kara was not angry at this admission, but it only seemed to amuse her. “Thought so. Well, I apologize for being so uptight about it.”
Magnanimous now, Freya shrugged. “It’s good to get a chance to practice my BA in bullshit sometimes.”
Kara laughed. “Well, not to keep you overly long, but you did say something that I wanted to ask about, on story nine—”
And on they went for another hour, talking about the work, and then another hour, sharing anecdotes from their work and their field. I watched in amazement, for both auras, which were prepped for battle early on, were now as tranquil as still water. When they separated, they hugged, and Kara invited Freya to join her at a reading next week.
I am not entirely sure how this happened. It seems that my hopes have come to fruition, but it must have been dumb luck that made it so, or else one of the Father’s miracles. I thought I might have made Freya an enemy! Maybe I should keep myself to romance in the future.