The Silenced Tale, стр. 47

“Listen.” Olivia leans into the middle of the table, and grins with mischievous joy. “We know some people who know some people, and if you’re willing to go along with us on this, Elgar, we can pull some strings and get you invited to ConClusion as a last-minute guest of honor.”

“Okay,” Elgar says, sitting back, and trying not to frown. “Which one is that? I don’t think I . . . have I been to that one?”

Juan’s already shaking his head, staring down at his phone, where he’s diligently reviewing what Elgar assumes is some sort of spreadsheet or something. “No,” he says musingly. “It’s the new one in Toronto. I’ve got the website up, ‘Con-Inclusion, because fandom is for everyone. This con is in a state-of-the-art, accessible facility, with braille signage, extra large elevators, audio announcements’, blah, blah, blah, every panel has an ASL interpreter, strict harassment policies, cosplay is not consent, blah, blah, blah . . . huh. Looks really good, boss.” He looks up, grinning, and turns the phone around so Elgar can see a beautifully framed crowd shot filled with faces of every ethnicity.

“It’s the ideal market,” Gil says. “The engaged fans who are using their geekery to change the world.”

“And here’s the thing, right?” Olivia says, holding up a finger. “We’d put it out that you have a special announcement to make at the con.”

“Oh, that’s how you want to break the show news?” Elgar asks, still not seeing what’s so special about this. The original plans for a splashy, full-color spread in Variety seemed like enough to him.

“Yes! But!” Olivia says before he can interrupt further. “Hear us out.”

“Yeah, instead of just announcing the news in the middle of your Q&A, you would have them lower a screen, dim the lights, and show them the clip,” Andy says, so fast that it’s nearly incomprehensible.

“What clip?” Juan asks, looking just as confused as Elgar feels, which is nice. It’s good to know he isn’t alone in this. “A bit of the show?”

“There’s no way you can pull together a trailer in three weeks, is there?” Elgar asks. “I mean, you won’t have even finished filming the first block by then.”

Stan sits forward then, adding his voice to the excitement: “We thought, if we do this, we’d push the first filming block back a month. We’d be . . . Reed, we’d be filming something entirely self-sustained. The actors have already agreed, if you do.”

Elgar scowls. “Explain.”

“We want to film a short!” Gil blurts. “Something with just Kintyre and Bevel. Something that’s not in the books!”

Elgar slumps back in his seat, wide-eyed with thought. “You . . . really? That . . . might be good.”

“More than that,” Olivia says, reaching out to lay her hand on his forearm, a mirror of Gil and Juan. “We want you to write it.”

Elgar feels his face go cold, and suddenly, he’s sliding sideways. Juan lunges across the table to grab his arms.

“Whoa, boss!” Juan says, even as Andy wraps an arm around Elgar’s shoulders and pulls him against the back of his chair. “Breathe, boss.”

“I . . . I . . .” Elgar says, and realizes that his lungs are burning. He sucks in some air, coughs, and accepts the glass of water Andy pushes on him.

“Sip slowly, man,” Gil says, also standing, concern scribbled across his face. “If we knew you’d react like this, we’d have tried to soften the blow.”

“Is this good fainting, or bad fainting?” Olivia asks Juan. “Like, hypoglycemia?”

“We just ate,” Juan points out as she shuffles aside so he can get out of the banquette. “Boss?”

“I . . .” Elgar tries again, but the rest of what he wants to say is caught in a sharp, scraping lump at the base of his throat. He swallows, and swallows, and coughs, and can’t seem to dislodge it. He sucks down another deep breath, through his nose, and covers his face with his hands.

“Is he okay?” he hears Stan ask.

“It’s . . .” Juan begins, makes a helpless sound, and tries again: “He hasn’t been writing. At all.”

“At all?” Gil asks.

“Not since he finished the Shuttleborn books six months ago,” Juan says softly. “He says it’s not writer’s block, but—”

“It’s not!” Elgar protests, dropping his hands to his lap. “I’m just . . . I can’t!” The urge to explain why, exactly, is like a sudden and unexpected shove against his lungs. He gasps again.

He could tell them. Right here. All of them. He could explain why he’d pulled out of writing a script, why he’d retreated to the back of the series’ digital writing room, why he’d been reluctant to start a new book series. He could confess it all.

And then watch his career go down the drain as they realize he’s a nut job, pull out of the project, and probably help him get committed as soon as Juan could arrange for his care.

No.

Everyone is looking at him. Staring. Patient, but expectant. And the worst of them is Juan, eyebrows raised in surprise, a small smile nearly there, hope shining in his eyes. Shit.

“I . . . I can do it,” Elgar says, resigned and terrified at the same time, and still so damned flattered that they’ve asked him. “I’ll do it.”

The victorious hollers are like a firecracker going off in their corner of the restaurant. Gil punches the air, then looks at Juan like he’s bummed the younger man is on the far side of the table now and out of range for an “I was just so swept up in the moment” celebratory kiss.

Andy pumps Elgar’s hand, Stan slaps his back, and Olivia, strangely, pinches his cheek. Gil waves over the waiter, orders a bottle of bubbly, and makes Olivia shove over so Juan can sit beside him again.

“So! Let’s brainstorm stories!” Gil says as they wait for the waiter to return. “I had some thoughts about—”

“No,” Elgar says, sitting up