Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Brendan frowned. “…pausing shooting until a later date is just a soft-pedal way of saying ‘cancelled.’”
“He can’t,” Cillian whispered, voice trembling. “He can’t, we all worked so hard, we put up with so much, he can’t…he can’t just rip it out from under us like that, he…he…”
“He can, that…that dickerdoodle,” Sophie hissed, stomping one slim foot. “Just…just get all our hopes up, and then dump us.”
Newcomb raised both hands, nearly shouting now to be heard as the crew burst into chaotic noise, disbelief, protests. “Now, now, I understand you’re upset. If I had any other alternative—”
“You do,” rang firm and strong and angry over the room.
And Brendan stared, that uneasy whisper in his ear turning into a scream as Cillian stepped forward, his lips white with anger, his jaw clenched with determination. He glared at Newcomb fiercely.
“You need a castle?” Cillian threw at Newcomb. “I’ve got one you can use right now.”
Newcomb’s face contorted into a grotesque mask of contemptuous confusion. “How do you have access to a castle?”
That question hovered on Brendan’s lips, as well.
But he sure as hell wasn’t ready for the answer.
“Well, I, uh…” Cillian went red, and swallowed audibly. “…I happen to be the prince of a rather small island?”
l
CILLIAN WAS SURE HE’D HAD worse days in his life than today.
He couldn’t think of one right now, but there had to be one…somewhere. A day worse than coming back from a blissfully quiet weekend with Brendan, fully recharged and ready to deal with that arse without blowing a fuse—only to find out his first major film hovered on the brink of cancellation, and now he’d gone and opened his big mouth and volunteered his goddamned home to that walking, talking human scab, leaving everyone on the cast whispering and staring at him like he’d grown a second head.
And that was how he’d ended up here.
Slouched on the couch in his dressing room, arms folded over his chest, while Brendan and Mr. Anderson stood over him, glaring fit to burn through solid steel.
“Explain,” they flung out simultaneously.
…fuck.
Cat was out of the bag, now.
And he’d done it to himself.
“I…fine. Okay. Okay. Have you ever heard of Sclata?” At their blank looks, he sighed, thudding his head back against the sofa and staring up at the ceiling panels. “We have a Wikipedia entry. Not sure we even rate one, but it’s there if you’d rather look it up.”
“Just…tell me,” Brendan groaned.
“…that’s…easier said than done.”
Cillian scrubbed his hands through his hair and pressed the heels of his palms over his eyes. Maybe if he didn’t look at Brendan, he wouldn’t have to dread just…
He didn’t even know.
“Fine…okay…basic history one-oh-one,” he mumbled into his hands. To the ceiling. He didn’t know. “It’s a tiny island in the North Sea. Between Iceland and Norway. It was a British colony as far back as the thirteen hundreds, but then that whole…little ice age event happened and the glacial conditions just…cut us off. An entire island of people left to fend for themselves with almost no contact with the outside world for a couple of centuries.” He shrugged. “By the time anyone remembered we were there, we’d established our own monarchy and fucked off to do our own thing. We don’t produce anything but slate, which isn’t really that interesting. It’s even what Sclata means in Irish Gaelic. So no one bothered conquering or re-annexing us. They just let us keep puttering alongside the world, moving mostly at the same pace as we caught up. Miracle of miracles, we even adapted to modern English, instead of an offshoot dialect that sounds like a Scotsman vomiting up a very small, very angry dog.” He winced. “…we get tourists? Occasionally?”
Brendan cursed. “So you’re from some frozen kingdom no one’s ever heard of.”
“…I mean if that’s how you want to describe it…”
“And there’s a castle there.”
“Yes,” Cillian answered.
“So just…how do you intend to convince its occupants to let us use it?”
…and now the slide into hell began. Cillian grit his teeth and draped his arm across his brow, keeping his eyes shut. “Well…considering they’re my parents…”
An odd glottal hissing noise escaped from Brendan. “Your what.”
“My parents.”
“Your parents. Live in the castle. On that island.”
“…yes?”
“Which would make them…”
“…the king and queen…” Cillian mumbled.
“…which would make you?”
God, Brendan was just going to make him drag it out, wasn’t he? Somehow that was worse than Mr. Anderson’s complete silence, almost ominous when Cillian refused to look.
“Like I said, a prince. A third son of very little importance with no interest in inheriting the crown,” he finished on a sigh, and Brendan growled.
“Cillian.”
Swearing, Cillian dropped his arm, rolling his head forward and looking at Brendan reluctantly. “Yes. Okay? I don’t know how many times I have to say it. I’m a…prince. Sort of. Well, not sort of. I am. It’s just I don’t rule over anything, the entire monarchy’s more like a governor with a few satellite mayorships. I’m not important.”