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The view from the floor-to-ceiling windows in the thirtieth floor conference room looked south, across Century City. It was hazing quickly in the L.A. smog, suggesting the low, boxy outlines of the Twentieth Century Fox studios.
The conference table was massive in breadth and length, done in some obscure, threatened rainforest wood. It boasted seating for twenty in chairs finished in some obscure, threatened animal hide.
Like many expressions of opulence, this combination of window, light, rare wood, and rare leather was hardly intended for meetings. It was an instrument of intimidation.
Cadence and her grandfather had been ushered into the room alone and left waiting. To stew. To take in the power.
The door opened and in came the suits, two men and one woman. First came the legendary publishing executive, tall, immaculate, with a full head of gray hair coifed to slightly long, Hollywood-irreverent length. Flanking him was the grim senior law partner. Next came the shark-like associate, the ace, the lady attorney with Ivy League training and acid for blood. Behind them, looking rumpled despite his fifteen hundred dollar Armani suit, came Mel. In this crowd, he looked like a used car sales associate hovering around for his commission.
The suits worked the introductions, graciousness overplayed because they held the cards. They all sat down, each side arrayed across from the other.
“Ms. … Grande.” The delay was calculated as the senior partner glanced down at their clothes, their status, then continued, “I want to thank you for coming here. My clients have reviewed Mr. Chricter’s query regarding certain … uh … supposedly lost documents owned by Professor Tolkien.”
A long pause as he studied them.
“We suggested this meeting to avoid any … misunderstanding.”
More pause.
Here the executive calmly put his hand on his trusty counsel’s arm, and leaned over. “Paul, let me step in here.” He looked engagingly across the table and folded his hands, pre-announcing the finality of what he was about to say.
“Ms. Grande, Mr. Grande, our position, to be frank, is that we will not allow publication of these materials. Nor will we allow you to keep any of the originals, wherever they are. As our attorneys can no doubt explain fully to you or your counsel, we will do all within our power to prevent their publication.”
To Cadence, despite his lack of pointy hat and a wand, his look could not have been more wizard-like. She knew, deep down, just what he was. “Sir, you may think you can secret away the truth. And in part your people,” she left a long, deliberate pause here, “have already stolen back much of this. But not all. I can’t prove the authenticity of the words anymore. But you can’t disprove them either.”
The executive’s hands unfolded and sat palms-down on the table. His attorney stiffened.
“And in any case, they’re part of what happened to my grandfather and me. And that we own.”
Like a confused puppy sensing things are not going well, Mel interrupted. “Cadence, look, I’m sure there’s a modest but still meaningful price you’ll accept to turn all this over, all the copies, everything. Perhaps an amount that would save your grandfather’s property.”
Cadence turned to face him. “Mel, I know you got something out of this already. I checked the Les Inspecteurs website. They got a one-season deal on French TV off of the pilot made about me. The money was probably a bluff. Like reality TV. Like you. Anyway, I know your motto. You’re opposed to any deal you’re not part of. But there’s just not a deal here. We don’t want to relinquish this. I think someone, maybe, might care about what happened to us.” She gestured to her grandfather and herself. “And I’m damn sure a lot of people will care about what happened to Ara. The heroine that you … people … are trying to erase. You can’t handle her. But she’ll survive. In many names, many guises, but always her. Look, she is her own tale. She belongs to all that would find her first steps,” Cadence hesitated and then finished by looking straight at the publisher, “beside a secret gate.”
The words sounded odd in this conference room, but they were exactly right. The executive’s eyes opened like an imposter revealed.
Cadence slid a page across the table. “Part of her story may be lost, but not all. She lives.”
The lady attorney was fidgeting, getting ready to do her thing. “I’m afraid, Ms. Grande …”
Cadence cut her off. “Excuse me. We’re leaving. We withdraw our … Mel’s query. Thank you and good day.”
She rose. Jess looked at her and followed.
The suits didn’t have a chance to stand. As Cadence and Jess left the room, the gauzy, yellow morning light of L.A. dressed them, still-sitting in silhouette as they gazed down at the single page left by Cadence. On it was sketched a large inscription of Ara’s Rune.
“Who were those guys?” Cadence asked in the elevator.
“Depends on your point of view. Some people see suits. You and I might see an evil wizard and his entourage. In this town, who knows who’s right?”
“So what should we do? How are we going to make sure Ara survives?”
Just as the elevator doors began to close, Mel ran up. He put his chubby hand out and the doors backed open. “Cadence, isn’t there some way to get this done?”
She looked at him, remembering his frustrated inner-writer, the fragile bit of Luke Skywalker hoping to have a chance. “You know, Mel, you’ve given me an idea. A really good idea. I’ll call you.”
He backed off and the doors came together and sealed the elevator for its passage down to the real world.
