Chapter One #2
“She did. Three books. Three good books, as a matter of fact. But she got stage fright when her real name was revealed and didn’t publish again.”
“I heard she moved to France.”
“Did you? And where did you hear that?”
Reddit. “Around.”
“It was London,” he says, readjusting his glasses as he turns to his computer. “But she moved back to Ireland just before Frank died. She lives there now.”
“In his house?”
“In his house.”
I let out a low whistle. Frank’s house is famous.
Almost as famous as his books. He bought it after he sold his first million copies, and it became this mythical pilgrimage site for his readers.
He lived in the middle of nowhere, and locals kept tight-lipped, but it didn’t stop people from traveling halfway around the world to try to find it.
I thought about making the trip myself after college, but when I got the job here I figured the whole “stalking one of our authors” vibe might be frowned upon. Especially someone like him.
Even after his death, Frank Sheridan is still our biggest name. His Ravian books, a nine-volume epic fantasy series, have sold in the tens of millions, aided by a wildly successful movie trilogy. Everything remotely to do with him turns to gold, so if Casey is bringing up his daughter…
“Is she writing something else? Under her own name?” Just the thought has me sitting straighter. The marketing plan writes itself.
But Casey’s being coy.
“She is.”
“Fantasy?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Finally walking in her father’s footsteps.”
“You could say that. She’s writing The Last Mountain.”
I laugh, as anyone would when their boss tells a joke. But Casey doesn’t say anything more. He just continues to tap away with slow, deliberate prods of the keyboard, waiting for me to catch up.
It takes me a minute. “The Last Mountain.”
“Yes.”
“As in…”
“Yes.”
“Ciara Sheridan is writing The Last Mountain?”
Casey’s eyes shoot to the door and I press my lips together. “Sorry,” I say, lowering my voice. “But…what?”
The Ravian series wasn’t supposed to be nine books; it was supposed to be ten.
And for years, The Last Mountain was the promised culmination of nearly two decades of storytelling.
The ending to it all. Like everyone else, when Frank died I resigned myself to never knowing what was supposed to happen to the characters I’d grown up with, to this world I’d loved. So…what?
“He kept copious notes,” Casey continues.
“He said he didn’t want anyone else to write it.”
“Anyone but her, though he didn’t say that in public. He knew the pressure she’d face.”
“But she’s writing it now?”
“Yes.”
“But she’s…” I shake my head. “But he didn’t…”
“Sam?”
“I think I need to sit down.”
“You are sitting down.”
Oh.
Casey pushes a glass of water toward me.
“Frank got in touch with me a few years ago,” he explains as I take a gulp.
“He said he’d started writing it, but I never thought he’d finish.
I knew he was unwell and assumed he was just growing sentimental.
But after his death his estate sent some final letters and things he wanted me to have.
Among them were explicit instructions regarding his final manuscript.
Chiefly, that he wanted Ciara to finish it.
I waited a few months to give her space and then reached out.
When I asked her if she would write it, she said yes. ”
She said yes.
Ciara Sheridan said yes.
The team are going to lose their minds.
Not that we’ll need to work that hard. We could charge fifty dollars a copy and people would still buy it.
Hardback. Paperback. Special edition. Exclusive edition.
Bonus material. Complete box set. We could repackage the whole series.
No more talks about cutbacks. We’d probably have to double our staff to keep up with it all.
My heart starts to race just thinking about it. Frank Sheridan’s final book. Frank Sheridan’s final book. This is it. This is the moment that makes up for every late night and every long email. This is the moment that—
Casey shuffles some papers. “I don’t think she’ll be able to do it.”
And I swear there’s a goddamn record scratch in my brain.
“What do you mean?”
“The first few chapters were good,” he says. “So good that I thought about telling you all weeks ago, but I wanted the book on my desk before we announced it. We can’t afford to make any mistakes.”
“Understood,” I say slowly. “So what’s the problem?”
“She hasn’t written any more. She hasn’t sent me anything in five weeks. And she’s barely responded to my emails in the past two.”
“Maybe she’s just putting her head down,” I point out. “Doing the work.”
“Maybe,” he agrees. “But maybe not.”
“You think she’s bailing?”
“I think she’s struggling. In fact, she told me as much in her last message.”
I sit back, confused. “So we’ll get a ghostwriter. Put her name on the cover. The important thing is that we get the story right.”
Casey frowns, but I don’t see the issue.
“Or we say she was a contributing writer,” I insist. “She did some Zoom calls. Came up with the character names. It’s not like every random celebrity doesn’t do the same thing.”
“But this is not a random book. And Frank was clear that he wanted her and only her to write it, or no one at all. When she agreed so quickly, I hoped she was up for it, but I think we’ll need to do some hand-holding.”
“You want her to come to New York?”
“I proposed that, but she refused. Says she has too much to do at home.”
“What, then?”
“That’s why I wanted to speak to you,” he says as Melville hops from one stack of papers to another. “I was hoping you’d go to Ireland for me.”
“To—” I break off with a wince as the cat lands directly on my lap, digging his claws into my thighs. “Excuse me?”
“Ireland,” he repeats as I encourage Melville off.
“And do what?”
“Something on this scale can’t be worked out over a few emails. I want you to sit with her and go through Frank’s notes. I don’t expect her to piece it together by herself, and no one here knows these characters better than you do.”
“Is that your way of saying I’m a giant nerd?”
“It’s my way of saying that this is my solution to publishing the biggest book I’ll ever work on.”
“Paul is supposed to send his draft back in a few days,” I remind him. He’s my most difficult author, but he writes extremely sellable books. When he wants to, that is.
“We can move things around. I’m sure Amy will be eager for the opportunity to take on some titles.”
“And she deserves it, but—”
“Sam,” he interrupts, and I shut up. “I’m asking if you would like to edit the final book in one of the most popular series of all time. One that you grew up reading and that, if published right, will probably define your career. Is that something you’re interested in?”
“It’s only my greatest dream,” I admit, and I swear his lips twitch.
“Then it’s decided. Your passport’s up to date?”
“I think so.” I shift in my seat as Melville stretches and settles on the windowsill. “Does anyone else know?”
“No one. We’re keeping it quiet at Ciara’s request. She doesn’t like publicity.”
“Please tell me she’s not a recluse.” Visions of a peephole-peering, get-off-my-property figure come to mind, but Casey shakes his head.
“She just doesn’t want the pressure of too much attention.”
“Then she’s writing the wrong book,” I mutter.
He gives me a knowing look. “I can ask Laura to take over if you don’t—”
“No,” I say quickly. “Sorry. It’s just a lot to wrap my head around.”
“I know. And I know it’s a big change to the schedule, but I want you on this, Sam. I’m trusting you to get this done.”
“But how will I—”
“I’ll send you an email with the details.”
That’s Casey-speak for get to work.
“Okay, then,” I say as his phone starts ringing. “I guess I’ll start on my handover.”
“Wonderful. And, Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“Find a shirt, would you?”