The Children(22)

They tittered politely, then began.

Penelope was good. Frank, smart. She made quick work of the on-the-record stuff: Guin’s childhood (“Isolated? More like . . . idyllic”). The deaths of her parents and their aftermath (“I don’t remember much about that period of my life”). The shepherding of her mother’s legacy and estate (“A massive responsibility, and a total honor”). Guin understood she was being tenderized, as a precursor to opening up about Ennis.

Then Penelope surprised her. “Tell me more about your father. Llewellyn Sharpe.”

That was an interesting gambit. People tended not to care much about him.

“He was wonderful,” Guin said. “Like someone out of a book.”

Penelope smiled faintly, chin resting on her fist. “Which book?”

Guin riffled through options, regretting the phrase until she had it. “I Capture the Castle,” she said definitely. “He would’ve been right at home. His painting studio, that was his castle.”

Penelope shook her head in mock dismay. Or maybe it was real. “But he was an actor. A fantastic actor, who retired at thirty-three. At the top of his game.”

“I . . . yes, I understand he was.” Guin shifted in her chair. It was increasingly difficult to remember what she’d told the ghostwriter and what she hadn’t. Best to keep it simple. “I never got to see him perform, obviously. Unless you count bedtime stories. Not everyone gets a nightly reading from an actual Shakespearean.” Deprecating interview laugh. “By the time I was . . . aware, he was focused on painting.”

“Right, but his paintings were shit,” Penelope said bluntly. “His acting was transcendent. Did he ever tell you why he retired so early?”

Guin looked at her strangely. Surely Penelope had some idea. Llewellyn was a married man of thirty-two when he met Edith Cooper, seventeen-year-old schoolgirl. One year later, baby Ennis on the way, Llewellyn left his fancy London wife—a legendary producer’s daughter—and their four-year-old twins for a pregnant bride barely on the right side of legal. All his promise drowned in a sea of bad publicity.

Over the years Guin came to understand Llewellyn’s first wife had probably left him. And that it was less bad publicity than his former father-in-law’s powerful hand that kept him from mounting a comeback. He’d lost more than he intended when he set out to seduce a teenage Edith.

Guin tried reaching out to one of her half-siblings once: Chloe Sharpe, a minor mumfluencer whose heavily documented obsession with her AGA cooker struck Guin as unseemly. The reply came from Chloe’s barrister husband: a cordial command that she never contact them again.

“Sorry.” She shook her head, smiling. “I wasn’t expecting—did you see him perform?”

“Not quite old enough for that,” Penelope said. “My mother was a theater critic for the Voice. She told me your father’s Hamlet was the most electrifying thing she’s seen onstage. She flew to London on her own dime for his Macduff.”

“Wow,” Guin said softly. “I wish I could have seen that.” Time and practice had reduced her father to a bouquet of bright anecdotes. A nosegay, really. In her head he’d been old at the end, old enough to play King Lear. In truth he’d died at forty-six.

Penelope let a moment pass. When it was clear Guin would say no more about Llewellyn, she said, “This morning.”

They laughed, Guin’s a touch too shrill. “It wasn’t a great morning.”

The journalist nodded with convincing sympathy. “You seemed a little jumped by the news. Was that the first you’d heard of your brother’s announcement?”

“You could tell?”

Penelope pursed her lips. “How often do you see him? Or are you in contact at all?”

“Not often.”

“And is that by choice? Your choice?”

Or his? The journalist didn’t say it.

“My brother and I . . .” Guin paused, gathered herself. It was incredible how long she’d managed to avoid the phrase. “My brother and I occupy an extraordinary place in children’s literature. We’re the only surviving family of a beloved author who died far too young, and, for many readers, stand-ins for both our mother and the characters she created in our names. I’ve chosen to be the steward of Edith Sharpe’s legacy, and I’m proud of that. She and the books deserve it. But my brother chose to step entirely away. I understand his choice, and I struggle with it, too. The Ninth City can be a heavy weight to bear alone.”

Penelope was nodding, though her interest had dimmed. Journalists knew patter when they heard it. “Now, it seems, he’s stepping back toward Edith Sharpe. Mother opens in less than a week. What do you think we can expect?”

Phenomenal legacy. I’m excited to see how he explores her phenomenal legacy. She couldn’t say it. “We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?”

The dark laugh that followed was the most honest thing out of her mouth since Penelope sat down. She had the sense the journalist would have pushed harder were she not doing Regina a solid. Instead, she said, “Your memoir, Ninth City Dreamer. I’m sure you’ve gotten offers to write one before this. What spurred you to finally put pen to paper?”

To get ahead of some bad publicity threatening to bubble up out of the past. And because she had to give Hart & Crane something. They might’ve commissioned the final Ninth City book otherwise, with or without her approval.