Beatrice waited until Francois' footsteps faded completely before exhaling, slumping back into her chair. That was too close.
She pulled her notebook out from under the larger tome, flipping it open to where she had left off. Ink still glistened slightly on the last sentence she had written, the scrawled words trailing off mid-thought.
She had been documenting everything. Everything she remembered, everything that was supposed to happen. But with each passing day, her memories of the novel felt less like something she had read and more like something she had lived.
Beatrice frowned, twirling the quill between her fingers. The more she wrote, the more her mind filled in the gaps. Details she didn't remember before suddenly surfaced. Conversations, emotions, things that hadn't been explicitly written in the novel but felt real now.
She shook off the unease and dipped her quill into the ink, forcing herself to focus.
Key events. She needed to remember the key events.
