"Penelope, your appointment is in fifteen minutes!" called Ms. Whittaker.

Penny, who had just exited a book, yelled back, "I know!" She had not known. She had, however, spent the last hour working on bleed on her own, because Kenji Raiden was late, as always. Upon soliciting a commission from Kenji, Penny could expect a response paper in the narrow, reliable window of the next day to two months later. Considering Kenji was doing this for free, generally, Penny thought it would be rude to complain, but she had received several papers in the past long after she had resolved the issue, rendering them unfortunately redundant.

That, and Kenji's papers were often completely useless. Once she had entered one to find herself seized upon by at least eight evil clones of herself. Kenji tended to cap off his stories, insofar as they were stories and not strategically written tests for Penny's abilities, with evil clones. It was what Penny artfully considered a 'cliche', or more kindly, 'a running theme'.

Most editors didn't have to deal with their clients' 'running themes' attempting to murder them.

Penny carefully gathered her papers into a disorganized clump and looked up at her mother, as if she expected her to be able to instantly teleport them both to Julia's house. "I've been ready," she said. "Where were you?"

"Looking for you, for the past fifteen minutes," Ms. Whittaker said, exasperated. She took the bushel of papers from Penny's hands and began straightening them up. "Are these Gwenevere-- Ms. Pendragon's-- personal manuscripts? Where did you even find these?"

"They're not her real manuscripts. They're just bookmarks. She puts them in everything," Penny explained, grabbing for the papers, which Ms. Whittaker rose just above her outreached arms. "They're helpful, though, kind of, because they usually have whatever techniques she used in them. Her real manuscripts are somewhere in the attic. She won't give them to me."

Ms. Whittaker nodded. "There might be a reason for that, Penny. There might be sensitive material in there."

"Well, I'm not really sensitive, so I think I'll be fine. She's coming, right?" asked Penny.

Ms. Whittaker shook her head.

"Is she okay?"

Ms. Whittaker said, "She's not feeling well lately. She's going in for a check-up today. Uncle Lance and Kay are with her right now."

With a carefully faked calm, Penny said, "Okay," and she grabbed her mother's free hand, the one which wasn't clutching the numerous wrinkled papers Penny had picked out. "We should go. Julia's not paying me to be tardy."

"Honey," Ms. Whittaker said. "When you take all the fees into account, she's barely paying you, period."

Penny's lips pursed. Her mother entered the car in near silence and it spoke for them, the low rumble filled with strained discontent. As they boarded the highway, Penny asked, "Do you and Gwen want the money?"

"It's your job. You should be getting the money," Ms. Whittaker said. "Nor do our family finances hinge on fifty dollars or so, biweekly. All your uncles and aunts work really hard to support our way of life and your situation."

Penny squinted. "What if I don't want to be in a situation?"
"Your grandmother and I have agreed that it's too much pressure for you to be in the open. Once you start getting contracted, there's going to be a lot of public attention on you, and that's not fair at your age. The Acedias have agreed to help us keep your existence out of the limelight for now--"

"--if I get out of the situation, I don't have to marry Alric, right?"

Ms. Whittaker frowned. "You're still grounded from any and all electronics, and Melody Sterling, by extension."

The only electronics Penny ever used were her flip phone, on rare occasion and in emergencies, and an old 2000s Dell computer which took ten minutes to boot up. She played Pinball on it, occasionally, but her father had also purchased a number of real pinball machines for the basement, which were better. Rather than push a sour subject with her mom, who would inevitably begin treating her as if she didn't understand the magnitude of the situation, Penny just cringed backwards into her chair and said, "Won't happen again."

The car grumbled.

Penny watched the road pass. Every stop sign or passing light seemed to have somewhere better to be than in their immediate vicinity. "I want to help, but what can I do?"

"Stop going into the library alone," suggested Ms. Whittaker.

"No," said Penny. She had been grounded no less than ten times for this when she was young. They had tried to barricade the library, and she had gotten in through the secret passages. These had been barricaded, and then Penny would sit outside the library for hours. Eventually, an elaborate number of cameras had been set up around the library, numbering in the hundreds. Penny could just as easily disappear into a book as an unmasked person could enter a bank through the front entrance and rob it.

Ms. Whittaker leaned backwards into her own chair, her eyes fixed on the road. "What do you even get in there? Penny, it's a little bit depressing, don't you think?"

"No. It's full of useful information. Are my dad's notes anywhere?" asked Penny. "I bet he's got all kinds of tricks."

Penny knew one trick from her father. Her mother had made the mistake of mentioning when Penny was much younger that her father was especially averse to teleportation or walking between pages, and had preferred to move with the book in real time. However, for spacial transversal, he had a particular fondness for wings. It was the first thing Penny had ever formed from ink. She could have practiced with geometric shapes, small items, or anything else Guinevere had suggested, but the first thing she ever did upon going into a book was to sit there for hours forming wings until she could feel the ink unfurl from her back, strong and true.

The car rolled up to Julia's house.

Penny hesitated in the car. "If something's wrong with Gramma, can you tell me?"

"Penny, of course we'd tell you," Ms. Whittaker said.

Penny's face twitched. "What happens if something really bad does happen to her?"

Ms. Whittaker was quiet.

"I'll have to start doing things eventually. Real muse things," Penny concluded, her throat tightening.

The car hummed in the driveway, and then Ms. Whittaker cut the ignition. The silence stole over both of them like a wave. "You be careful when you do all this, Penny. I know it's exciting, and we're excited for you, but you have to remember what the stakes are. You have to be safe."

"I know," Penny said. She leaned against the window of the car.

"You must love going into books. It's so nice to have all this off your shoulders, isn't it?" asked Ms. Whittaker, more cheerfully.

Penny looked up at her mom. She could see where the smile sagged, genuine though it was. "Of course," said Penny, but she didn't add that no matter where she was, she lived in the shadow of every writing muse who had ever lived, their powers sprawled out behind her in the form of wings, sometimes bearing her upwards, and sometimes dragging her down.