Since he'd arrived on the island, Ernest had scarcely written a word. A short article around Christmas time, vaguely glancing over what he had of his next novel, the occasional note of an idea, but nothing substantial, nothing concrete.
Since Paris, however, that had changed, and he knew it wasn't the city. It was Knightly, she was what he had needed to unlock him again, get him back in the flow of things. So, he'd come back, and he'd started typing like a madman. His apartment was now covered in notes and paper and scribblings, the workings of his imagination put to paper. And he'd written letters, not that he was ever a solid letter-writer, but it was so good to be doing that again. And with someone so fucking brilliant.
He'd slipped a note through Abi's door, and then decided to go outside for a bit, get some air since he'd apparently been typing non-stop for near 48 hours.
And well. That was not what he had expected to see. A massive, magical chess set, and a woman shouting at the pieces-
He quirked an eyebrow at the magical bishop, and the head of the pawn. The queen kicked it, and it came rolling towards Hemingway at some speed, until he stopped it with his foot.