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Even if books were all the room contained, it’d be magical enough.

But . . . it’s not just books.

It’s more.

I stop before three identical filing cabinets against the slanting wall of the farthest corner. The cabinets themselves look as old as the house. The metal is cracked and rusted on every corner. Cobwebs cling to each handle. The whole thing looks like nobody has touched it in a hundred years. Just how I like it. Just how, I know instinctively, the one before me liked it as well.

With one swift glance behind me and the same growing anticipation I always have, I grab the center handle and give it a tug. Feel the drawer give.

I still remember the shock the first time I opened this drawer. I was just a little fledgling at Pennington at the time, and it had been a particularly hard day. Ms. Pennington had just given me a public tongue-lashing over my “overuse of useless and distracting flower pictures” on a PowerPoint during an editorial meeting. This had come right after my supervisor, Giselle, had thrown out some not-so-subtle clues that I’d taken a major misstep in going on a date with her ex-boyfriend the week prior. When someone asked if we could get rid of a leftover box of books from the previous meeting, I jumped at the opportunity to be alone.

I remember how I crept into the room, barely making a sound, feeling that with one small creak something sinister would surely jump out from behind the shadowy bookcases. I remember seeing the metal cabinets in the corner and how I thought it looked like a good spot for storage. How I tentatively gave that little handle a tug. And how, instead of what I’d prepared for—the single drawer scratchily sliding out, revealing a bunch of forgotten files—the entire face of the file cabinet swung open. It took everything within me not to cry out as I stumbled back, tripping on a box of old books in the opposite corner along the way. My head had grazed a massive cobweb on the wall, and I’d spent the rest of the day breaking out into fits imagining spiders crawling through my hair.

But the discovery I made in that moment was well worth it.

Pulling Lyla’s tote close, I hunch to half my height and carefully step through the open door.

One push against the back of the metal cabinet, and it swings open as well.

My personal wardrobe to another world.

And suddenly I’m here.

The room is dark, illuminated only by the window and its streaming light just below the cone-top roof. I glance at the stained-glass sparrow, the purple of its wings shading the beanbag in the center of the small turret in violet hues, as my fingers find the chain and tug. The lightbulb swings as it comes on, revealing the beaten, wine-red Persian rug in the center of the floor and the curved bookcases rimming the shoebox-size room.

Books. Dozens of them, brought here—like the rug, like the beanbag—not by me but by someone before.

Covers of books framed in cheap wood hanging along the wall, all signed by their authors. Stacks of books forming a sort of side table on either side of the beanbag. One half-read overturned book with cracking spine waiting impatiently on top of a book stack for me to return and finish.

Slowly, over the past two years, I’ve been adding to the books, inserting my own favorites into the treasures harbored here. Ones I love. Ones that mean something to me as well.

I’ve always felt it was our little secret—mine and the mysterious person who made this their secret refuge before me.

Our little sparrow room.

Our little hideaway.

I check my watch. Three minutes and twenty seconds. (And 4678 steps! I may just hit 5K by lunch!) Not even time to organize the mess. Only time to drop and go.

I feel exposed flipping the tote over and spilling the crumpled, beaten sheets all over the rug. I’ve never left my manuscript here before. For that matter, I’ve never brought it to work at all, until today.

And yet, where better to hide your secrets than in your secret hideaway?

With one more long look at the papers at my feet and with the silent promise of return as soon as possible in my heart, I pull on the string to turn off the light and leave it all behind.

Chapter 3

It’s the Griswold Family Christmas reunion.

Boisterous greetings echo around the vast foyer of the old mansion, bouncing from the polished marble floors to the frames of bestselling Pennington releases lining the walls. Several silhouettes are in view through the windows, framing a crowd chatting on the creaking planks of the wide, wraparound porch outside. Old brass sconces, faithfully keeping their posts, glimmer softly. The chandelier, with its 352 crystals, high above quivers with a booming laugh.

Arms are thrust out and hugs in dripping overcoats passed around as Pennington’s authors escape the freezing rain and step inside. Conversations like “How was your trip?” and “I saw your post about your missed flight, poor thing” and even “I’m sorry, Tabby, but I really don’t think trying to conceive is a permissible excuse for missing your deadline” float all around me. Cheeks are flushed, partly from the excitement, partly because the foyer is so hot and crowded.

And me?

I’m just about quivering with excitement. Or at least my stomach is.

Because today is a free day. And not just any old free day, but a free day with a company card. A free day where I literally get paid to take authors out under the illusion of company grandeur to eat at that new restaurant I’ve been eyeing for months and can’t afford. A free day to prance around the city with whichever author I’m hosting—making sure they have a good time, sure, chatting over their newest ideas, yes, but also eating. And sightseeing, sure. But then eating some more.