Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sam
On Saturday, Ciara and I leave early to drive to Dublin.
Or to the outskirts of Dublin, at least.
Turns out Ravicon is being held in one of those big, anonymous hotels near the airport. It’s not the most scenic of surroundings, but it’s one of the few places in the city that can host the huge number of people visiting over the weekend.
We’re driving in separate cars since I need to drop off the rental and she’ll need to get home, but she solved the issue by keeping up a phone call the entire time.
I think she meant it to be fun, but all it makes me think about is how I’ll have to get used to that.
How, from tomorrow, this is how I’ll hear her voice.
Through a speaker. On a screen. An ocean away.
The past few days have been strange, though neither of us admit it.
We haven’t spoken about what comes after today.
As though if we don’t, then it won’t happen.
But it’s not as if we’ve had much time to speak, anyway.
I’ve been busy dealing with the leak, and Ciara’s been writing.
Or at least she keeps telling me she has.
All I’ve seen her do is scowl at her computer screen for several hours a day and then refuse to show me anything.
So I guess we’re back to that again. The weather hasn’t helped either.
The long-promised summer storms are on their way, and the thick cloud overhead gives the world a gloomy, desolate feel, as if everything’s been stripped of color.
Our hotel is across the road from the convention center, and the room we’re put in is a standard one. Basic and clean, if a little worn, with a stunning view over the dumpsters. Ciara barely gives it a second glance as we come in, just dumps her bag by the bed and locks herself in the bathroom.
My attention goes to the large gift bag left on the desk.
Dear panelist, reads a generic greeting card. As a welcome to Ravicon, we enclose a small selection of what will be available for purchase over the weekend.
List of suppliers, be sure to tag us, etc. etc. etc. Guest passes, water bottles. I grab a decent-looking pen from the top of the pile because you can never have too many pens, and examine the fridge magnet.
“Does this hotel have a spa?” Ciara asks as she reemerges.
“Nope.”
“Does it have a pool?”
“No.”
“Does it have anything?”
“It’s a three-star budget airport hotel. You’ll be lucky if they make you a cheese sandwich.”
“I want to at least get drunk later.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Hey.” I draw out a packet of Ravian-themed cookies. “Snacks.”
“We get presents?” She wanders over as my hand closes around something soft, and I draw out a cheap red wig.
“Cute,” she says. “Suits you.”
“It’s Maeve’s.”
“Then we should give it back to her.”
“Funny.”
She slips the wig from my hand, draping it over my head. “Please wear it.”
“No.”
She spins away from me, opening the snack as I unpack my notes.
She’s trying, I know she is, pretending not to care when she’s hating all this, and not for the first time I wonder if I should have asked her to stay at home.
We could have said our goodbyes in Carrigwest. Dealt with it properly instead of stretching it out. But it’s too late for that now.
She flicks through the television channels as I take a shower and change into fresh clothes. After that, it’s time to go, but I linger, feeling the need to say something. Ciara acts like I’m not even there, pretending to be absorbed by a cooking show even as her shoulders visibly stiffen.
“I’ll be a couple of hours and then I’ll come straight back,” I say eventually.
“Sure.” She smiles at me. It’s a fake one. “I hope it goes well.”
“If you need me—”
“I’m fine, Sam. I’m going to work. I’ll see you later.”
“We’ll talk then.”
“We will.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I take it out to see Lizzie calling me. I silence it, focusing on Ciara, who’s now working her way through the snacks.
“I’ll text you before I go on,” I say, and she calls good luck as I close the door.
For a moment, I just stand there looking at it, feeling in my gut that this is the wrong thing to do, before I force my feet to turn and head to the elevators.
It’s a short, sweltering walk to the convention center, but the hall has air-conditioning at least. Giant industrial fans that keep the place blissfully cool.
They’d probably have to cancel the whole event if they didn’t.
The center is packed. I didn’t look up the numbers, but it has to be a couple thousand, judging by the crowd around me.
People of all ages rove around in costumes and themed T-shirts, bags of merchandise clenched in their hands.
There are babies in strollers and groups of laughing teenagers and grown men studiously examining replica figurines.
I hear a dozen different accents. A dozen different languages.
Frank Sheridan’s reach was worldwide, and all the world is here.
I sign in at the desk, am given a booth map and sent on my merry way.
I barely take two steps before I see the first bookstore. There’ll be more, but this looks like the biggest, with the books and board games and branded stationery. The more expensive stuff is up front, and I pause at a display of gift items, checking to see what they have.
“You seen this one?”
A middle-aged man approaches on my left, pointing to an illustrated edition of the first book. We published it a few years ago.
“The details are incredible,” he continues, peering at a battle drawing.
I feel a burst of pride. “They are.”
He admires it for a few seconds before flipping it closed again. “Pricey, though. They charge anything these days.”
“Color printing is much more expensive than black and white,” I protest, and the guy blinks at me. “And printing costs have increased by forty percent in the past few years.”
“It’s still sixty bucks.”
“But the shipping alone means— Okay. Yeah.”
He wanders off, and I straighten the stack he messed up a little more passive-aggressively than I should. I can practically hear Lizzie in my ear. You’re being you again.
I sigh, and am doing a quick glance around to make sure all our other titles are front and center when my eyes catch on a table toward the back.
A few years ago, we rereleased the first edition for the fifteenth anniversary with the same cover as the one I used to read in the school library.
The one I kept checking out until my parents bought me my own copy.
It’s the kind of cover that went wildly out of fashion before becoming painfully cool recently.
The title in big, bold text, the cover a colorful illustration featuring a young Finn holding up his sword to the stars.
And maybe it’s because of where I am, or because I’ve been working on these books all summer, but just the sight of it pulls at something in me, and I buy it, even though there are shelves of them back in the office.
It feels different buying it in a bookshop. Purer. As though this is the way it’s meant to be.
And all I can think about as I flip through it is that I wish Ciara were here with me. That she could see this. The goodwill. The excitement. It’s almost like I want to say, See? We’re not all bad.
“Mr. Avery?”
At the entrance to the panel rooms, a blond-haired teenager in a bright orange vest bounds up to my side. He’s got a lanyard and a headset and a grin as wide as his face as he introduces himself. “Simon Ridley. I’m here to take you backstage. We’re so excited you’re joining us.”
“Great.”
“So excited,” he repeats with an enthusiasm bordering on hysterical, and okay, maybe it’s best she’s not here.
I follow him away from the chaos and into a long corridor. Other events are already under way, judging by the murmur of voices from behind the closed doors, but Simon leads me to a small greenroom, which consists of a few chairs and a table of snacks. There’s no one else inside.
“The others are out watching another panel,” Simon explains.
“Others?”
“Yep.” He checks the clipboard. “Alison Smith moderating. And Austen Mitchell is joining you onstage for a reader’s perspective.”
Austen’s name rings a bell, but I can’t figure out why. “I thought it was just Alison and me.”
“The panel’s on the future of Ravian,” he explains. “We’ve brought storytellers from both sides.”
Fan fiction.
That’s where I know the name. Austen Mitchell is one of the biggest names in the fandom.
He’d been writing short stories and sometimes full-length novels for years online, which was completely fine until he tried to sell them as an official continuation of the series.
It’s as though the guy woke up one day and decided his work was too important for such trivial things as international copyright law.
I was only in my second year at Richardson Books when we sued for infringement.
He dropped it pretty quickly, but the guy had an attitude about it that he’s yet to shake.
I go to shoot off an email to Casey, annoyed that we weren’t told this in advance, only to see another missed call from Lizzie. Crap.
“Did you ever meet him?”
I look up to find Simon still here, watching me. “Who?” I ask, before I realize he means Frank. “No. I’ve met his daughter.”
Simon’s eyes go wide. “I thought she died.”
“She—what?”
“My sister said she died.”
“She’s extremely alive,” I say, alarmed. “She’s just private.”
“Right.” His neck goes bright pink. “Sorry. My mistake.” He takes a step back, embarrassed. “I’ll come to get you when it’s time to start.”
“And maybe tell your sister not to go around spreading rumors in the meantime,” I begin, but my annoyance snuffs out as soon as I say the words, something tugging at the back of my mind.
“Please help yourself to some fruit,” Simon continues, but I’m barely listening as he beats a hasty retreat out the door.
Frowning, I unbutton the top of my shirt, and look at my phone. The missed call notification from Lizzie stares up at me, and my stomach sinks.
I’ve been so sure the leak came from someone in the village.
But what if it didn’t?