Chapter Text
The only thing worse than giving interviews, Caleb reflected miserably, was reading them back the next day.
Veth told him not to. Beau told him not to. Percy told him not to. The small part of his brain that could be rational this early in the morning told him not to. But every time he would memorise when the interview was going up, whether it was being broadcast on the radio or printed in a magazine or, like this one, posted to the internet. And still, ten minutes before that time would find him frantically refreshing the front page of the book review site, waiting for it to appear so he could read it and feel like shit about himself.
And around half an hour later, Veth would let herself into his flat to find the man himself with his shirt pulled up over his head, face down on the kitchen table, moaning in misery as his laptop cast a baleful glow over his bedhead.
“I told you not to read it,” was all she said that morning, setting a takeaway cup of coffee and a wrapped croissant from the cafe beside him. Veth had learned a long time ago that Caleb needed to be fed at times, in pretty much the same way you fed a feral cat who frequented your garden.
“Why do I keep agreeing to do this?” Caleb lifted his head at the smell of warm butter and crisp pastry, snagging the edge of the paper bag with a finger.
Veth took the seat across from her friend, starting to shift through some of the clutter on the table, just one puddle of the wider garbage ocean that built up in the flat when Caleb was in one of his moods, “Well, my apologies for neglecting to explain this to you, being your agent and all. But when authors have a new book coming out, they do what’s called press? So people actually know the book is coming out so they can buy it.”
Caleb gave her sarcasm an unimpressed stare, chin now dusted in croissant flakes, “You think this is going to improve my sales?” He turned back to the screen, back to the article, jabbing an accusing finger at one paragraph in particular, “ You would think the dark minded architect of some of the most twisted horror novels in the last ten years would cut a more impressive figure. But Caleb Widogast- assumed to be his pen name- turns up to our interview having spilled coffee down the front of his yellow flannel shirt while on the bus and apologising profusely.”
Veth couldn’t help her mouth twitching up into a smile, “Well, we got the stain out of that shirt in the end, didn’t we?”
Caleb ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up even worse and scrolled down to another bit, “ When asked how he fills the pages of a frankly ridiculous number of novels with such nightmares, Widogast just shrugs. “I don’t know where it comes from,” he admits in his humble Zemnian countryside accent, “I suppose I did not realise how it would affect other people. Of course I didn’t fucking know, that question wasn’t on the list they sent me.”
Veth’s mouth did tighten at that, “Wasn’t it? Interesting. Last time we do any PR with that site then.”
“‘Humble’. Ficker ” Caleb muttered darkly as he scrolled, “More thinly veiled insults...Gods, okay, I get it, I look like a librarian. Do these people expect me to show up covered in blood? Ach and then this... After an hour or so of slightly awkward conversation, Widogast finally gives us a scoop. I asked why, after so many years of staggering productivity, has the resistant horror master gone suddenly silent? Six months without more nightmares on the shelves when he’s used to putting out at least a book a year. Well it turns out Widogast is working on something new. It’s just not going to be in the section you’re expecting. Parents, get ready for months of bed wetting and your kids sleeping between you because Caleb Widogast is turning his hand to picture books.”
Veth winced a little, folding her hands around the cup of coffee she’d brought for herself, just for something to do with them, “Ah. Right.”
Caleb finally shut the laptop, apparently even he had limits on how much damage he was willing to do to himself, “Veth, this is exactly what I knew would happen. This is why I shouldn’t have done this!”
He looked despairing, the telltale signs of a panic attack leeching in through the way he was tugging on the sleeves of his jumper, the way his leg was bouncing, the way his eyes were starting to unfocus. Within a second, Veth was on her feet and jumping down from the chair, moving to hold her friend’s shoulders tight, having to stand on her tiptoes.
“Caleb, it was one bad interview, okay? They won’t all be like this, I promise.”
Caleb’s eyes said he didn’t know if he wanted her to be right or not. Veth had seen that expression on his face a lot over the years she’d been his agent, mostly when she’d first convinced him he should publish some of the piles of composition notebooks he’d filled with pencil chicken scratch, telling him that if getting it out made him feel better then surely putting them out into the world would help even more. And if she didn’t know how right she’d been, she would have gladly let Caleb retreat backwards into his safe, comfortable life publishing pulpy horror novels and making a small fortune he donated ninety nine per cent of to charity.
But Veth had been right about publishing his work, first online and then as actual books when there was an immediate interest, she’d been right that he would feel that weight on his chest lift even more with every pair of eyes that read his work. And she was going to be right about this too.
So she put her hand on Caleb’s rough cheek, prompting him to look at her. There were red rings around his eyes from his night of poor sleep, his mouth turned down at the edges, his jaw scraping and slightly rusty from his incoming beard.
“You know why you’re doing this,” Veth said gently, telling him not exactly what he wanted to hear but what he needed to hear, “That’s enough. You’re enough. Yeah?”
It took a moment but Caleb finally nodded, the fact that he’d at least managed to sleep, the fact that he’d eaten and drank and he’d closed the laptop when it had gotten too much helping him see what was real, past the dark clouds at the edges of his mind.
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Exactly,” Veth gave his cheek one last pat before letting him go, “And for what it’s worth, people are really excited about this new book. People who aren’t assholes who just want to get eyes on their dumb internet articles.”
“I don’t know about that,” Caleb shrugged, taking another long sip of his coffee to stop the lingering shakes in his hands, “Excitement could really quickly turn to disappointment when they actually read it.”
Veth snorted at that, picking up her messenger bag and throwing it back over her shoulder. It rattled as she did so, probably with buttons and trinkets she kept in there to entertain her baby son or herself when she was bored in her days full of meetings negotiating deals for clients. She hadn’t been a literary agent before she met Caleb but now she was, she was a damned good and busy one.
“Then let's enjoy it while it lasts, huh?”
Caleb grunted at that, now down to the bitter dregs. He swallowed those too before he asked, a little guilty, “You came all the way down here to pull me out of a self loathing spiral with a croissant?”
Veth tilted her head, “That..and also to remind you about the launch party tonight.” She said the last part quickly like she was hoping to get out of the door before he’d fully processed it.
No such luck. Caleb gave a strangled groan, hands flying over his face before he slumped down across the table again.
“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck shit fuck.”
Veth sighed, turning back and mentally shifting her schedule back by ten minutes, “Come on, Caleb, we made our peace with this…”
Caleb’s voice being muffled by his palms and his kitchen table didn’t hide the despair in it, “Why didn’t I just be one of those authors who lives in a cabin in the woods and won’t appear in public?”
“It isn’t public!” Veth insisted, her voice placating like she was trying to get a frightened kitten out from under the fridge, “It’s being thrown by the publishing house, it’ll just be people you already know! Well…”
Caleb’s blue eye peeked out from between his fingers, accusing, “Well what?”
Veth took a deep breath and held up her hands, “Okay, I was going to let it happen a little more naturally but...I think that might be a bad idea. Percy thinks he’s found your artist.”
Caleb shot upright, an expression on his face that was hard to read but looked like it could go a number of ways. It looked like the expression a computer might have when it was fed incorrect data.
“Excuse me?”
Veth played with one of her button earrings, a sign she was getting slightly nervous, “Obviously, Percy wouldn’t make any decisions without checking it over with you. He’s just found someone whose portfolio looks really good and whose style really seems to match what you’ve written so far, that’s all. He just wanted you to bump into each other tonight, get talking and see what you thought.”
Caleb’s heavy brows furrowed, “Percy would never assume I’d talk to someone at a party.”
Veth gave a little laugh at the indignant expression on her friend’s face, “Maybe he was living in hope. But that is actually what you’re supposed to do at these things, you know. It’s called networking.”
“Disgusting,” Caleb grunted dismissively, clearly wanting to pull on an earlier thread of conversation, “But who are they, this artist? What do they do, have they done picture books before? Have they read the manuscript? What did they think?”
Veth chuckled, gently blocking the tidal wave of questions she could see building behind those few, “Okay so? That is exactly what you say to them when you meet them!”
Her friend’s face pinched unhappily, a war clearly happening between his dislike of parties and his desperate need for answers to those questions. That was the way of it with Caleb, dangling a carrot that was bigger than the stick he’d beat himself with.
Eventually he blew out his cheeks in frustration, rubbing a sweater covered fist into his eyes, “Fine. I don’t know what to wear though.”
“I know, honey, that’s why I left a suit for you in the living room.”
Caleb frowned and rocked back on his kitchen chair. His apartment was still very poky, as poky as a bestselling author who gave ninety percent of what he earned to charity could afford in his city, so he didn’t have to go far to see the edge of the suit bag draped over the sofa.
“It better not be itchy,” he mumbled, folding his arms sulkily.
“How long have I known you?” Veth snorted, nudging him lightly, “Percy said he’s sending a car at seven. You’re getting a ride with Beau so you don’t have to walk in on your own, just hide behind her all night if you like. But if you need me, I’ll be at the bar.”
Looking at him, pinching the bridge of his nose and cheeks puffed up in an exasperated sigh, you’d think Caleb was regretting the day he’d said yes to Veth’s suggestion to publish his stories, as long ago as it had been now. But she knew her friend. More than that, she knew who he’d been before. Veth could remember the days just after they’d gotten out of rehab, the days where he wouldn’t be able to get out of bed, where he’d be scared to go out on the street in case he saw someone he knew, afraid to close his eyes for the same reason. The days when everything he’d been through was a rock in his stomach, keeping him from eating, drinking, sleeping, doing anything but sitting on his bed and picking at the bandages covering the burns on his arms.
Writing it all down, versions of it that had him carefully clipped away and the edges neatened, was the only thing that shifted it. Sending it all out into the world, taking what he’d never been able to tell anyone and telling everyone without them knowing, that had shrunk it down enough that he could start to heal.
And now Caleb was here, washed and dressed in his own apartment, eating and drinking without prompting, making plans for how he could now reach out and help other people the only way he knew how. His own quiet, gentle way.
Veth couldn’t put into words how proud she was of him. Or how hard she would fight to help him do what he needed to do next, now that old coping mechanism was failing.
She reached up and put her hand on his shoulder, squeezing tight, “Caleb?”
His blue eyes slid over to her, the tension in his face relaxing a little. There were too many lines at the edges of those eyes, they seemed older than the man who owned them.
“I’ll be at the bar if you need me,” Veth said again, gently, “We’ll all be there if you need us.”
A small smile flickered over his face as he nodded, “I know.”
“Seven,” Veth reminded him again, with a squeeze, before finally turning to the door. There were many reasons Caleb was her favourite client- not that agents were supposed to have those- but a big one was knowing he would never be late for anything.
Even something he absolutely didn’t want to do.
“I really don’t want to do this.”
Beau gave him a raised eyebrow over the glow of her phone screen. It threw her harsh, dramatic eye make up into sharp relief and made her look of exasperation sting even more.
“And water’s wet,” she muttered, throwing one leg over the other. The back of the car was spacious but the size of her heels still risked catching Caleb on the shin, “Why do you think they send me in with you for these things? It’s so I can tackle you if you try to run away.”
Caleb grunted, leaning against the cool window of the car to try and take some of the heat out of his face. Beau had dragged him into a few events by the collar, that was true. But she’d also pulled the fire alarm to get him out of one or two, when he’d been really struggling. What else was your editor for?
“Have you met them? The illustrator?” he eventually asked, eyes following the lights streaking past on the other side of the glass, the city blurring by.
“Seen his work,” Beau shrugged, tapping away on her phone, either eviscerating someone’s manuscript or promising to pick up food on the way home for her girlfriends, “It’s good. Kind of psychedelic. Lots of watercolours.”
“Oh. Is it colourful?”
“Oh yeah,” Beau nodded, pausing to take a long drink from the complimentary champagne glass. Or rather, Caleb’s complimentary champagne glass, hers had been drained before he got in the car with her.
“Hm. I am not very colourful,” Caleb told the washed out shadows of the skyscrapers going past.
He heard Beau snort, “And the sun is hot. But this guy’s been suggested by the rich dude who owns the publishing company, Caleb, so you have to at least say a few words to this one before you give him the same boot you gave all the others. Sorry.”
Caleb pulled a face at the faint ghost of his reflection. He was aware he was being a bit unreasonable on this point, part of the reason why he’d gone so quiet after writing new books like clockwork for most of his career was because he was turning away artists again and again. Established industry veterans, complete unknowns with fresh illustration degrees, even famous names that would undoubtedly boost sales, Caleb had knocked them all back for admittedly flimsy reasons. He knew he was surprising his friends, maybe even pushing them towards frustration, but he couldn’t reconcile any of these beautiful sketches and paintings with the book he had in his mind. None of them fit his story and he often couldn’t even say why they didn’t.
Back when he had been writing about his pain, his fear and panic and isolation, it hadn’t mattered what the book came out looking like. The covers had those old fashioned painted images, real classic horror novel feel to them and that had been okay. Because those books had just been purges, getting the poison out of his mind and onto a page so Caleb could close it and sent it off and feel more space cleared in the dark attic that was his brain. Even if they’d borne no resemblance to his past- and he was very careful to keep them that way- the emotions were his and he was glad to be rid of them no matter what the painted blood and bone on the cover looked like.
This was different. This was so different and so important that Caleb still didn’t have much faith in his ability to actually do it.
But if he was going to do it, he had to do it right.
“I’ll talk to him,” he mumbled sulkily, “We’ll just...we’ll see.”
“Well we’re going to see pretty soon,” Beau pointed out her window, “De Rolo building, ten o’clock.”
Of all the towering, sleek skyscrapers in this part of the city, the de Rolo building put the others to shame. Percy might shrug and say it mostly looked after itself, and always had done since he became the de Rolo in charge of it, but even static it was a mighty thing. Caleb never had reason to visit the engineering department, the R&D floors, the software development department, the many floors Percy had given over to focus on the company’s charitable efforts. The publishing house took up a relatively small part of it all, more Percy’s passion project than anything that kept the family fortune turning over, but they had a good few noted authors on the roll call now.
It suited Caleb, writing for Percy. Percy had known him for a long time, after all. He understood his eccentricities, his strange schedules, his discomfort with too many public appearances.
And above all, Percy knew just enough to know what questions not to ask.
All events like this were held in the expansive balcony garden, magic working in harmony with engineering to keep out any of the city’s nightly chill and noise and maintain an overflowing jungle on one of the vast glass balconies. Beau and Caleb didn’t need directing up to it, not that anyone would, it was a hard thing to miss, the explosion of green up just below the roof. But they’d been here before, both of them familiar with the soft murmur of conversation, the clink of glasses, the instant burst of fragrance from the flowers as soon as they stepped out of the elevator. There were beautifully dressed people of all different races moving through the foliage, disappearing and reappearing like tigers in silk and gemstones. Caleb recognised most of them, they were people who worked in the publishing house, everyone from the interns to the agents. Percy didn’t like to leave anyone out of celebrations like these. Some of the better dressed faces were new however, probably the investors and donors or the rich socialites who just spawned at events like this.
It was familiar, which meant Caleb was very familiar with the sinking feeling of dread as the glass doors slid open.
“Whose party is this again?” he hissed to Beau as she threw an arm around his shoulders and walked him forward.
“You remember the manuscript Percy got sent a few months ago? The box that was all mouldy and mossy and a goddamn moth flew out when he opened it?” Beau hummed, her heavy bracelets jangling next to his ear.
“Oh,” Caleb nodded, “The comprehensive field guide to forest flora?”
It certainly had been a strange delivery, a handwritten sheaf of pages in a heavy scrawl with no name or return address, but with detail and knowledge contained inside that any naturalist would have given their back teeth to know. Not the kind of thing de Rolo Publishing usually dealt with but there were entries in it that marked completely new discoveries, not using it would have been a waste.
That and Percy’s best friend was a druid who’d been practically salivating over the book since it had arrived.
“That’s the one,” Beau hummed, “Well, after asking pretty much every plant nerd in every university in the city and beyond, Percy finally found out who wrote it. That guy.”
She pointed, indicating one of the strangest individuals Caleb had ever seen. An incredibly tall, incredibly thin, grey furred firbolg dressed like a stoner college student became visible around one corner, ears flapping happily under a wide brimmed hat as he appeared to talk to one of the monstera plants. And, sure enough, as they were watching, Keyleth approached him and began gushing animatedly, which seemed to amuse the fellow no end.
“Ah,” Caleb mumbled, “Yes, that looks like the kind of person who would write that book.”
“Apparently he didn’t know people got paid to write books,” Beau shrugged, “He seems like a hoot.”
Caleb gave a less non committal grunt than he normally would. He did actually get the sense that the firbolg would be less stressful to talk to than most people. Anyone who turned up to his own book’s launch party dressed like that had to be quite easygoing. Plus he definitely looked like he’d have something in his pockets to help Caleb get through this evening.
Beau was giving him a look, an ‘is this a fire alarm situation’ kind of appraising look, “You good, man?”
Caleb hunched into his suit jacket a little further, “I’m fine. Just tired. Bar?”
Beau gave a laugh, jangling as she led the way to the sleek, backlit bar with it’s array of brightly coloured bottles, “Took the words right out of my mouth. Things will look better with a beer in your hand, you’ll see.”
Beau’s assurance worked, for the first hour at least.
Those sixty minutes were first spent catching up with Percy, who he bumped into at the bar, chatting about his kids. Then getting a swift hug from Veth, who bought him his first beer and told him all about the ridiculous people she’d been in meetings with. Then pulled into a loud, laughter filled conversation between Fjord and Beau, mostly with her teasing him about the title for the latest installment of his young adult pirate novels and him answering by sarcastically bemoaning that if only he’d had an editor whose job it was to stop him doing such stipid things. The man of the hour himself, apparently called Caduceus, actually drifted in at the end, eyes bright with interest about this story of Fjord’s. Beau and Caleb left the two of them talking, sharing grins over Fjord’s suddenly pink cheeks and goofy smile.
And then the inevitable happened and Beau’s promise was broken.
There was always a comment, usually from the people who didn’t actually work in their office, from the people with more jewels and more expensive looking outfits. Caleb would just be hanging on the fringes of a group, on the way to or back from the bathroom, or simply wanting to fade into the background for a little while to take a breath.
The comments came in different forms. I simply don’t know how you write such scary things! It’s so impressive how you can carry those gory ideas around in your head. Your last book gave me nightmares for a week, you must never sleep! I’d ask you where you get your ideas but I’d be frightened of the answer! They’d be delivered with a smile, like they were supposed to be compliments, like Caleb’s next line was to nod and thank them politely.
And he supposed they weren’t to know. How could they? But there was no getting away from the fact that those comments, those fake smiles, all they meant was that he’d turned it all into a joke. That he’d never be anything more than cheap thrills and scares they could close the book on and leave on their nightstand. That, to them, it was all a game.A game that was now all he’d ever be known for.
So, in the end, Ikithon had won. He was never going to be rid of him, not really.
Caleb knew he was being rude, as he mumbled some excuse and pulled away from the crowd he’d suddenly become trapped in. He nearly stumbled as he lurched for any of his friends but the tide of the party had drifted him away from them when he hadn’t been looking. So he just moved, kept putting one foot in front of the other, that realisation echoing over and over in his head and, on its heels, a question.
What was he doing? What the hell was he doing, trying to pretend any different?
Caleb felt cold stone under palms that didn’t seem like his own, he had a vague idea that his eyes were taking in the cityscape far below him. He tried to count the lights in the skyscrapers closest to this one or fix his gaze on one of the tiny cars far below and follow it until the hammering in his chest stopped making him feel like he was going to be sick. Things like that usually worked but the panic was growing, it wasn’t backing down the way it was supposed to and it was threatening to pin him down and-
“Hey? ‘Scuse me? Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude or anything but are you okay?”
The voice, unfamiliar and so much closer than he’d ever been expecting, was enough to jolt him out of his panic. Like he’d been dreaming about falling and suddenly slammed against his pillow, Caleb gave a soft gasp and jumped, only realising as he pulled away that a hand had been on his shoulder.
“Easy there!” the voice turned soothing, “Hey, you’re okay. Everything’s okay.”
Caleb found himself reaching back for the hand, holding on tight, brain still frantically gathering itself. Strong, calloused fingers squeezed back and he felt the press of some heavy rings.
“Deep breaths now. There you go, in and out. That’s it.”
Caleb obeyed, more than happy for someone else to do the thinking, dragging air in and out of his lungs until he could think straight. The connections between himself and his body parts came in scattered bursts, different parts coming back on line at different times, but eventually he felt himself back in control and began to assess the damage.
Thought one, he was uncomfortably sweaty. Thought two, he might have dropped his beer over the edge of the balcony which was a concern. Thought three, wait no, they had magical force fields to catch anything dropped before it hit the ground.
Thought four, he was clinging to a complete stranger’s hand.
Caleb whirled around, snatching his hand back, grimacing, “Sorry. I don’t know what…I’m sorry.”
The stranger’s smile stayed in place. They were a lavender skinned tiefling, bright red eyes and dark violet hair and dramatically curving horns that shone with adornments. They were an inch or so taller than Caleb- a lot of people were- and they shone softly as they rocked lightly on their heels. Some of it was the jewellery, some of it was their clothes, not expensive but artfully chosen leather trousers and a billowing sheer blouse in a material that looked like spun silver. Under it, Caleb’s eyes immediately snagged on a tapestry of tattoos across their skin, instantly enraptured by their intricacy and colour.
Which of course, meant he was staring.
Either they didn’t mind or they were used to it, the tiefling just chuckled, “You don’t need to apologise, its okay. And if you don’t know what was happening there, you were having a panic attack.”
“I…no, it’s not…I know what was happening, I get them a lot,” Caleb’s eyes darted around, relieved to see that they’d moved behind a large lavender plant and no one seemed to have noticed his panic, “I, um…thank you. For helping.”
The tiefling shrugged lightly, taking a seat on the lip of the planter, throwing one leg over the other, “Of course. Looked like you were getting a little overwhelmed with all the people, huh?”
Caleb sat down beside them, glad of the excuse to let the shaking leave his limbs. He blinked as they passed him his mostly drunk bottle of beer, they must have caught it for him just in time.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, taking their offer to tap it against their own glass of clear alcohol, “Prost.”
“Cheers,” they smiled, “I don’t blame you, y’know. I’m completely out of my depth here too.”
Caleb finished his beer and regarded them curiously, “Hm? You’ve not been to a book launch before? Have you just started working here?”
Maybe it was presumptuous but, looking closer, the tiefling’s outfit was definitely either second hand or handmade or some combination of both, their jewellery looking like costume jewellery or thrifted pieces. That didn’t speak to a new donor or a socialite just looking for something to do with their Saturday evening. Maybe this was a new intern or researcher, Percy tended to hire students from the local colleges to give them a chance to earn some money while they got their degrees, deliberately making the hours flexible and hurriedly making up scholarships on the spot for anyone who was really struggling.
“Oh, well,” they pondered that, drawing a finger around the rim of their glass, “In a way, I guess? Though I’m not sure if it’s going to work out, I think I’m just meeting with someone to see if I’m a good fit…”
“Oh?” Caleb gazed out over the city, finding a few stars managing to bravely shine through the smog clouds, “You’re freelance?”
“Yep,” their gaze seemed to be following the same route as Caleb’s, a lazy smile in their voice, “Guess we’ll see.”
“Sorry, I’m being rude. I probably should have asked your name by now, seeing as you kind of came to my rescue and all.”
The tiefling shifted, turning towards him and holding out a hand, “Mollymauk Tealeaf. Nice to meet you.”
Caleb rolled that name around his mouth, enjoying the way it sounded and certainly enjoying having a more normal reason to clasp their hand again, hoping it might erase the memory of the first time, “Mollymauk. That’s nice.”
Mollymauk Tealeaf grinned, showing a set of pointed teeth, “You’re cute. And you are?”
“Caleb!”
The two of them turned to this answer that hadn’t come out of Caleb’s mouth. Percy walked up to them, his perpetually tired smile on his face. It was the only kind he’d been able to make since the twins had been born two months ago. There was actually a smudge of formula powder on his otherwise impeccable suit sleeve that people were politely not mentioning.
“I was just coming over to make sure you two had found each other,” he gestured to them, “But it seems like you got started all on your own.”
Caleb felt a little better about the expression of puzzlement on his own face because Mollymauk wore an identical one, “Huh?”
Percy chuckled, straightening his glasses, “Haven’t gotten to that part yet then? Caleb, Mollymauk is an artist. He’s the one I wanted you to meet.”
There was an almost audible click as everything fell into place. He felt his cheeks heat up, feeling quite profoundly stupid. Wonderful. So the person who had read his manuscript, one of the most deeply personal things he’d ever written, had found him having a panic attack at a party and had to sit him down in a lavender plant. He doubted there had ever been a worse start to a working relationship.
Caleb wasn’t looking forward to breaking Percy’s heart and sending him back to trawling through portfolios and Instagrams.
But when he glanced back, Mollymauk was smiling still, if a little coyly now.
“Oof. Sorry about that,” he held up his hands, gracefully abashed, “Honestly, I’m not a big reader so I didn’t recognise you straight away, Mr Widogast.”
That raised Caleb’s eyebrows, “You haven’t read any of my books?”
Molly shook his head, with a slightly thinner laugh, “No, sorry. Guess that doesn’t make me look very good does it? Guess I should just pack my bags, huh?”
But Caleb’s eyes had widened and he looked almost intensely alert, every trace of the panic chased away. Though neither of them were looking, a knowing smile flickered across Percy’s face and he took himself off to endure a little more mingling.
He hadn’t read any of his books. To this colourful, kind tiefling he wasn’t Caleb Widogast, famous and eccentric horror writer. He was just Caleb, who he’d already seen at his worst and was still here, still smiling.
“You can call me Caleb,” he gave a small smile back, “Can we meet tomorrow?”