Chapter 20

And Robert had said myAnthony. As if—

He ventured, “I write the novels as John Fellowes. You may recognize the name.”

Robert looked at him with absolute glee. “You’re a genius.”

“Oh, hardly—”

“You are!”

“It’s not as if they’re the classics of literature—”

“But you make people feel things!” Robert detached a hand from Anthony’s to wave it around, presumably indicating the emotions of the world’s population. “You tell stories! You make everybody gasp and cry and weep over Eliza’s grave and send up a cheer when Maximilian rescues Bianca! You make us all care!”

“Robert,” Anthony tried, halfheartedly interrupting—some piece of him basked in Robert’s fervent praise as if it were sunshine—and tempted to laugh, “what I write is hardly the point, when I’ve asked you a serious question…”

“Oh, serious questions…you’re brilliant! Do you know how many people read your stories?”

“Ah…I’ve got some idea, yes…you really do like them.”