Chapter Twenty-Nine
Sam
Okay, so I fucked up.
I massively, massively fucked up.
My mind spins uselessly as I follow Simon out of the room, trying to ignore everything in me that’s screaming to go back to her. To wipe that look of betrayal off her face and fix this. I needed just a bit more time.
As it is, the panel is directly across the corridor, and I blink at the unexpected flash of cameras as Simon opens the door. The room is packed with hundreds of people, and I need a dazed second before I can take it all in.
“Sam?”
A woman approaches. Black dress. Dark hair. Chunky turquoise hoops in her ears.
“Alison Smith,” she whispers, holding out her hand. “We talked via email?”
We did.
Alison Smith, owner of Ravian’s largest fan site. I shake her hand and force myself to smile as she leads me to the side of the low stage, where I’m handed a microphone.
A man who must be Austen is already waiting. He’s tall and bearded, with glasses that look too small for his face. He also doesn’t acknowledge me, too busy smiling at the people in the front row, who seem thrilled just to be near him.
The room hushes as Alison gets onstage. I’m introduced first and climb the two steps to polite applause before taking the furthest chair.
I don’t get stage fright, but I feel instantly better when everyone’s attention moves from me. I’m not a personality here. They’re more interested in what I have to say than in who I am, a fact further proved when Austen gets a more rapturous welcome. Fan fiction writers are big in this world.
Alison is just taking her seat when the door I came through cracks open again. No one notices but me as Ciara slips through. The wig was a good idea. Half the room is wearing something similar and so no one gives her a second glance when she settles against the wall, watching me.
“Sam?”
My gaze snaps to Alison.
“We’re going to have to address the elephant in the room. A few days ago, several outlets broke the news that Richardson Books was working on the tenth novel in the Ravian series. You didn’t deny it. In fact, you confirmed it.”
“We did,” I say, and can’t help my smile at the excited murmuring in the crowd.
A camera flashes and Alison leans forward. “So why keep it a secret until now?”
“Because it’s not finished yet,” I say honestly. “We weren’t trying to trick anyone. We just wanted the manuscript completed before we went out to the wider world.”
“Which dispels the rumor that Frank finished it before he died.”
“Yeah, that would have made things a lot easier.” Laughter sounds. I relax a little. “He’d started researching it,” I explain. “He’d made some rough notes, knew the overall story. But there’s a lot of work still to do.”
“But you’re sticking to his plan.”
“We are. And we’re confident about where we’re going. I think readers both old and new are going to be very happy.”
“So long as you haven’t fed it into an AI machine,” Austen says.
I smile his way. “We haven’t.”
“And you keep saying we,” Alison says. “Obviously you’ve already chosen a writer to continue his legacy. I presume you can’t say anything on that just yet.”
“I can’t.”
“And it’s not me,” Austen quips with a look at the crowd. There’s more laughter alongside some disconcerted whispers. I try very hard not to look at Ciara.
“Austen brings up a point, though,” Alison says. “How did you pick the writer? Was there an audition process?”
“I’m afraid I can’t get into any of that,” I say as Austen huffs.
“More secrets,” he says.
“We’re just asking for patience while we get the book done—that’s our focus at the moment,” I say, ignoring him. “We didn’t intend for the news to come out so soon. That’s why I’m unable to share anything else right now.”
“But that brings up another point,” Alison says. “Some people might rally against publishing The Last Mountain if Frank Sheridan wasn’t the one to write it. Did it ever occur to you to simply leave this be?”
“No. Frank wanted this series to be finished. He told us he did. And it’s my promise to you that we’re going to do everything we can to honor these characters and his storytelling. We also have the full approval of the Frank Sheridan estate and—”
“His daughter,” Austen interrupts, and I tense. “You mean his daughter.”
“His daughter is the executor of his literary estate,” I confirm after too long a pause. “Anything to do with him must go through her for approval. Again, as per his wishes.”
But Austen isn’t done. “Frank was always easygoing with that kind of stuff,” he continues, and I’m starting to understand why this gets under Ciara’s skin so much.
He says Frank’s name like they were best friends, when I’m pretty sure Casey said Frank couldn’t stand the guy.
“He gave back to his community,” Austen continues.
“He encouraged creativity. Can we expect more of the same going forward, or is there going to be a shutdown now we have to go through her?”
A sting of anger races through me at the derision thrown into that last word. At Ciara.
“We don’t have any problem with inspiring other writers,” I say. “Copyright infringement aside.”
Austen says nothing, that insipid smile still on his face. But I swear the man’s jaw ticks.
Alison glances at her notes. “Why don’t we—”
“See, as a reader, my main worry is that they approach this as something purely for the masses,” Austen continues, speaking over her.
“I bet you all the money in my wallet right now that they’ll have brought someone in who does exactly what they’re told.
Sticks to a beat sheet and plays it safe, instead of giving the fans what they really want. ”
“Which is?” Alison prompts.
“I mean, if it was me…” He trails off with a laugh as some people in the audience shout encouragement for him to continue.
Not everyone is on his side, though; I clock a few people giving him the stink eye.
“It was Finn’s other life that always interested me most,” he says.
“Before I realized I could write my own versions, I used to stay up for hours imagining a separate story where he travels to the fifth mountain and rescues Lord Guerin. And the dark dawns never happen.”
“But if he travels to the fifth mountain, then no one meets Maeve at the cliff,” Alison says.
“Well, that’s the point. I believe that Maeve was meant to die. I do,” he adds when murmurs start. “I think that’s what Frank intended. Her death would have given Finn a more hardened outlook that would have served him better. That’s the journey he started on, even if it wasn’t how he ended up.”
“What do you think made Frank change it?”
“Editors, maybe,” Austen says with a goading look at me that I pretend not to see.
“Commercial pressure. The fourth book came out at the same time the movie was announced, and, not to be sexist, but these things are gendered. Maybe it was Hollywood. All I know is that his hand was forced in order to bring in that female audience.”
A smattering of applause, mainly from the men in the crowd, echoes around the room. My gaze flicks to Ciara to find her scowling.
“Frank Sheridan wrote those books,” I say before Alison can move on. “Him and only him, for almost twenty years. It’s only natural for a writer to change as they grow. But I can tell you right now that he wasn’t swayed by anybody but his own characters.”
“That’s not true, though, is it?” Austen asks. “He spoke all the time about outside influences. Other authors, his readers. His daughter. In fact, he said he initially wrote the character of Maeve for her. That the whole story changed because of her.”
“And that’s your issue with it?” I ask, all patience lost. “That Maeve took on a central role in the books?”
“At the expense of Finn. He betrayed his original story for her. And when readers ask why, we get ignored. Even now, we’re not listened to.
When Frank died, we had over five thousand signatures asking his daughter to hand the rights over to the fans so that we could end Finn’s story properly. We never even got an acknowledgment.”
I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. “So you’re pissed because Ciara Sheridan didn’t respond to a half-assed petition complaining about her recently deceased father?”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly a surprise that she didn’t bother to respond,” Austen says.
“This is the woman who rode on his coattails for three mediocre books and then disappeared off the face of the planet. And I’d hoped,” he adds, raising his voice when I go to argue, “that when she took on the estate she’d finally understand, but she’s shown over and over again that she doesn’t care about the fans.
So no, I don’t trust her to know what’s best. And I don’t think she should have control of these books. ”
“Well, Frank did,” I snap. “And she understands more about them than you ever will.”
“It takes a storyteller to truly—”
“She is a storyteller. She’s a hard worker and a phenomenal writer and she’s going to do an incredible job.”
There’s a collective intake of breath before the room goes quiet, and I’m confused for an instant before I realize what I just said.
The panel is silent. Alison’s mouth is agape and even Austen is staring at me, shock finally making him shut up.
I feel as if I just stepped off a cliff.
“An incredible job at what?” Austen asks after a beat, and this time I can’t help it as my eyes go to Ciara. Ciara, who’s gone as white as a sheet, who’s standing rigid against the wall.
Whose biggest fear has just come true.