The Silenced Tale, стр. 11
Elgar stiffens. “What do you mean?”
Juan looks down at the counter, clearly uncomfortable to be asking this of his employer, and traces the pattern of the granite with one perfectly buffed fingernail. “You know, like . . . did you get some special mushrooms for your salad?”
“I . . . Juan! You know me! I don’t . . .”
“I had a boyfriend once who started in on hash to relax when he got too stressed out at work. I know you’ve been under a lot of pressure, boss, especially with this Flageolet stuff.” He looks up, dark eyes earnest with worry.
“No,” Elgar says, gripping the edge of the counter. “Never.”
“You wouldn’t be the first writer to use in order to get over a block, and I—”
“A block?” Elgar splutters, jerking back. The stool sways, but he manages to yank himself back to center. “What makes you think I have writer’s block?”
Juan scratches the back of his neck. “Well, you haven’t produced anything new since you finished Magicwon. I didn’t want to bring it up, but Kim—”
“If my agent is worried, she can damn well ask me herself!” Elgar snarls, stunned to realize that they were gossiping about him behind his back.
“She’s tried!” Juan shoots back. “Boss, you told her you ‘weren’t writing anything right now.’ You’ve never gone so long without at least pitching something. It’s been almost two full years since you finished the Shuttleborn series, and you wouldn’t even let them publish the first book until the third book was written. You’ve declined every invitation to short-story anthologies, and you changed your mind about wanting to write a script for the TV series. You—”
“I know what I’ve done!” Elgar interrupts, frustration and shame blooming in his gut as his assistant enumerates his cowardice.
Juan slumps a little, curling his velvet-clad shoulders inward, trying to look soft and comforting. His hands flutter on the edge of the counter, and a smile pulls uncomfortably on the side of his mouth. For the first time since they were first feeling each other out, he looks nervous.
“Sure, boss, but . . . what we can’t figure out is why.”
Elgar drops his face into his hands, rubbing his forehead. The exhaustion is tugging harder now, a headache building behind his eyes. “I have my reasons, okay?”
“Which are?”
Elgar presses his thumbs against the bridge of his nose. “I . . . I can’t . . .”
“Is it writer’s block, boss?”
“I don’t believe in writer’s block, and you know that, Juan. I just . . . I don’t have any ideas. Okay?” He looks up, feeling that a confession this humiliatingly personal deserves at least eye contact. “I have no ideas.”
It’s a lie. And he really hopes Juan doesn’t notice that. It isn’t that he’s drained of ideas. It’s more that every time he comes up with a new world or character, he realizes that he might be harming another actual person in order to give that character enough motivation to begin the story. There’s no narrative without conflict. So he cringes away from each new book that germinates in his imagination. He refuses to water those sprouts, to nurture them. Only to then have to twist and hack at them, to rip them up or cut them down.
Juan’s eyes go round at the fake confession. “No ideas at all, boss?”
Elgar shakes his head as convincingly as he knows how. Forsyth despises lying, but he’s a consummate dissembler by nature. Algar’s wrath had taught him how to hide, and Lewko Pointe the Elder had honed it in him. His time as Shadow Hand had made it second nature. And Elgar has been studying under his creation, mostly so he could get better at handling the press. He holds eye contact with Juan and forces himself to blink slowly, not to lick his lips, or perform any of the other tells Forsyth says he’s prone to.
Poker face.
“Maybe you can—”
“I’m just tired, Juan,” Elgar says. “I need a break for a while, okay? I want to focus on the TV series. On my family.”
“Yes,” Juan says, eyes narrowing and spine straightening again. “This mysterious new family that you somehow acquired, who you never show me pictures of.”
Elgar rolls his eyes. “They’re real. I promise I’m not going up to Victoria once a month to score drugs.”
“But how are they related to you, boss?”
“Syth’s my sort of . . . cousin. You know, twice removed or something like that.”
Juan shifts like he wants to pace or come around the counter. He puts his hands on his hips and leans back again, clearly attempting to convey that he isn’t rushing or crowding Elgar, that he is waiting patiently for the rest of the explanation. Of course, he isn’t patient about it at all. Even Elgar can see that.
“I, um . . . they reached out to me at a . . . con.” Elgar puffs up, feeling defensive. “I like hanging out with them, okay? They’re good people. They get me out of the house. I thought you wanted me to get out more, spend time with people, do more than just go to conventions.”
“I did. I do,” Juan says, holding up his hands, palms out, don’t shoot. “Just . . . maybe talk to Kim, okay? Tell her what you told me. She’s worried.”
“I’ll call her tomorrow.”
“Okay. Okay, boss. Thanks.” Juan turns away then, assembles the salad in a bowl—sans steak—and sets it down in front of Elgar with a fork. “Here. Eat up. Get some sleep. Maybe you just had a stress dream.”
Elgar narrows his eyes and tries not to gag at the smell of the vegetables under his nose. They’re not rotting anymore, but the smell still turns his stomach. “You mean, if it wasn’t a bad high,” Elgar sneers.
Juan huffs a sighing chuckle. “I’m not going to live that down, am I?”
“No.”
“Okay, boss.” He pats Elgar’s shoulder. “I’ll lock up after me. Anything