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The elderly woman in the wheelchair points ahead at last. “Start at the Berkley tent!” she declares, and moments later the staff member in neon races her into the crowd, prodded on as the woman pushes people out of the way with her cane.

Now, where were we? Oh, yes, trying to face Ms. Pennington’s son.

By the time I reach the tent, Lyla has given up on the librarian in the corner and appears to have cornered Oswald, talking avidly while his bifocaled eyes dart around for a means of escape.

I face William.

“That was a madhouse—” I begin to say, but he cuts me off.

“Do you think this is unimportant, Ms. Cade?”

His voice is eerily calm. I don’t think I expected it to sound like that, I realize. I think I was suspecting it to sound more like his mother’s—loud and quasi-hysterical and attention-grabbing. But calm? Somehow, it feels worse.

“Do you think we are in some sort of shopping mall, where you can just float in when you please?” he continues.

I open my mouth, but he lifts a finger.

“Was I not absolutely clear yesterday when I stated just how significant this event was today, and how imperative it would be to go above and beyond?” My eyes dart to Giselle, who has now taken out a file from her purse and is frowning at a nail. “If this was my staff at Sterling, if I gave them a time to be somewhere—”

“Will! There you are!”

William’s eyes dart up, followed by mine, as two men approach. As they saunter toward him, with enough lackadaisical confidence in each step that others slide out of the way, I feel the tension in my chest releasing. I’m saved. Momentarily, at least, I’ve been spared.

Unlike those surrounding the pair of them in colorful cardigans and clever bookish shirts and pins saying things like Never Judge a Book by Its Movie and Abibliophobia: noun. The fear of running out of books, the two men wear gray. Suits that are utterly free of any sort of emotion. As if the very idea of accidentally causing a smile is repugnant.

I’m just trying to inch my way backward and out of the scene when the tallest man claps William on the back, his smile revealing the whitest, straightest teeth I’ve ever seen. “We’ve been all over this place looking for you. I kept saying, ‘Pennington Publishing. I know it’s small, but it has to be somewhere. Surely it isn’t such a small pub they don’t actually get’”—he laughs as he says the word—“‘invited.’”

His companion chimes in with a soft chuckle.

“Anyway,” the man continues, his hand turning from a clap to a grip and shoulder shake, “with a little squinting we found you.”

“Jim. How good of you to come over.” If I’d thought William was intimidating before with his eerily calm behavior, I now see he’s only been using quarter strength. His eyes have all but crystalized into two sharp, piercing icicles—but not the nice kind, no. Not the kind where you touch their dribbly tips as they dangle off tree branches while saying, “Aw, look! Icicles.” No, the kind that are so big and sharp people snap them off and use them as weapons. That kind.

And his back, for that matter, is starting to look like an upright cutting board. His body is so rigid I feel like if this guy shook him hard enough, he wouldn’t bend, he’d tip over.

There’s a painfully silent pause, wherein Jim overtly begins looking at me, no doubt awaiting introduction. Stiffly, William puts out a hand toward me. “Savannah, this is Jim Arrowood and Jenson Forbes, former coworkers at Sterling.” His chin barely moves an inch their way. “This is Savannah Cade. Acquisitions editor for our Pen division.”

I almost put in, “Actually, it’s assistant acquisitions editor,” but hold my tongue. Now’s probably not the time to correct the new boss.

The tall one, Jim, puts out a hand. His smile has grown to full-on used-car-salesman status, and for a blink of an eye, I wonder what exactly would happen if I refuse to shake it. Reluctantly, I give in.

“Nice to meet you, Savannah,” he says, giving my hand a hearty squeeze and shake the moment it grips mine. The next second he’s whipping his other hand into his chest pocket and pulling out a business card. “Editorial director at Sterling House. We’re always on the lookout for the next generation of great editors.”

I look down at the card in my hands. Read his name and title below the classic outline of the dignified old mansion that is Sterling House’s logo.

Unbelievable.

Not only is the man using me to loudly remind my new boss that he took his job, he’s openly discussing poaching me in front of my employer. As though my place of employment is of such little regard it couldn’t possibly be considered offensive.

My lips tighten.

I don’t know this man, and I certainly don’t know William Pennington, but I do know Pennington Publishing. I do know Patricia Pennington, terrifying as she may be, and the long-standing grit, determination, and integrity she has poured into her company. And I do have some self-respect.

Etiquette can take the back seat on this one.

The Cades do for family, and for me, even if it be in a smaller way, Pennington Publishing is family.

Even as my cheeks pink, my grip on the business card tightens. Before I know it I’m holding it out to him, a polite smile on my face. “I’m happy where I am.”