Fortunately this time when Evander narrowly avoided spluttering or choking at what his brother next said, he hadn’t had a mouthful of food or of wine. (He had actually quite forgotten the remains of the meal on his plate, now that they’d moved on to trying to sort out Alfred’s life. Priorities.)
Thankfully, though usually rather obtuse to the occasion of people joking, he knew Johnny well enough for it to sink in, more often than not, when he was only pulling his leg. “Merlin,” Evander intoned once the split-second shock of the statement wore off, actually letting out something like a snort and shaking his head, amused in spite of himself.
(He thought little enough of writing as a profession even before accounting for the nightmare of an edit J. Alfred Darrow’s expedition story had undergone; had never warmed to fiction and thought autobiography far worse, an offence akin to airing one’s dirty laundry to the street. An expedition might have had some speck of didactic or moral teaching in it, or travel writing at the very least - so Evander had hoped when he’d begrudgingly picked up his brother’s book - but the sensational pages that had followed, cheaper trash than a penny dreadful, rife with... well, the worst anyone could imagine of what might have happened in South America with the savages, had been as far from the mark as could be measured.
If it had been anyone else’s published book, he would have propped it right in the fireplace and watched the pages shrivel up while the room warmed. But since it was his brother’s, he had felt that would be a sort of blasphemous desecration, and so had instead dutifully buried it behind a row of books on the bottom shelf of one of his bookcases, in hope that no one but he would know it was there, and that an adventurous moth or mouse might, over time, spoil it beyond recognition and spare him the embarrassment.
Though he had almost forgotten it, by now, himself. And it had been long enough that most of the fuss had died down about it, but some things (the c-word, again) would perhaps never leave the public imagination entirely, for Merlin’s sake. The only consolation, Evander supposed, was that at least Alfred had not been proud of that final product.)
“Promise me you’ll do anything else, Johnny,” Evander said, continuing to shake his head as an honest laugh slipped out with his brother’s boyhood name unconsciously in tow, “- I mean anything else before you write another book.”
Thankfully, though usually rather obtuse to the occasion of people joking, he knew Johnny well enough for it to sink in, more often than not, when he was only pulling his leg. “Merlin,” Evander intoned once the split-second shock of the statement wore off, actually letting out something like a snort and shaking his head, amused in spite of himself.
(He thought little enough of writing as a profession even before accounting for the nightmare of an edit J. Alfred Darrow’s expedition story had undergone; had never warmed to fiction and thought autobiography far worse, an offence akin to airing one’s dirty laundry to the street. An expedition might have had some speck of didactic or moral teaching in it, or travel writing at the very least - so Evander had hoped when he’d begrudgingly picked up his brother’s book - but the sensational pages that had followed, cheaper trash than a penny dreadful, rife with... well, the worst anyone could imagine of what might have happened in South America with the savages, had been as far from the mark as could be measured.
If it had been anyone else’s published book, he would have propped it right in the fireplace and watched the pages shrivel up while the room warmed. But since it was his brother’s, he had felt that would be a sort of blasphemous desecration, and so had instead dutifully buried it behind a row of books on the bottom shelf of one of his bookcases, in hope that no one but he would know it was there, and that an adventurous moth or mouse might, over time, spoil it beyond recognition and spare him the embarrassment.
Though he had almost forgotten it, by now, himself. And it had been long enough that most of the fuss had died down about it, but some things (the c-word, again) would perhaps never leave the public imagination entirely, for Merlin’s sake. The only consolation, Evander supposed, was that at least Alfred had not been proud of that final product.)
“Promise me you’ll do anything else, Johnny,” Evander said, continuing to shake his head as an honest laugh slipped out with his brother’s boyhood name unconsciously in tow, “- I mean anything else before you write another book.”
