The others joined in the laughter.
Jacob remained silent. Purposefully silent. Meaningfully silent. And then remembered that silence was far from spectacular. To fail spectacularly, he would need to say the words aloud. All of them.
“It’s my pseudonym,” he replied quietly. “I trust you will not reveal the secret.”
The poets’ laughter crumbled like week-old bread. The room went preternaturally silent.
“No,” whispered their host. “Impossible.”
Jacob shrugged. “You don’t have to believe me now. But you’ll find that poem halfway through the new volume of poetry releasing next week.”
Each syllable of his murmured reply echoed through the room like cannon blasts.
“Isit possible?” squealed one of the new poets.
Jacob gave a tentative smile. “You’ll find out one way or the other next week.”
“Be serious,” said one of the more famous poets, as if Jacob had just confirmed the existence of flying dragons. “Are you really—”
“Quote another!” begged one of the novices. “Anything. What’s on page forty-two?”
So Jacob recited another poem. And another. And another. Until there could be no doubt.
He braced himself.
The resulting cacophony was deafening. And mixed.
His colleagues’ reactions were neither as vicious as Jacob had feared, nor as laudatory as he had dreamed. The cruelest ones said this was precisely why they had never respected an over-esteemed blowhard like Jallow in the first place. His poetry was as fake as his identity, and just as disappointing.
In response, their host burst out laughing. This time, not at Jacob, but at his own doubt. He pulled Jacob into his arms for an embrace that was part hug, part garlic crusher.
In fury, those who had never liked Jallow—or who could not reconcile the veneration of their hero with the ordinary human before them—donned their top hats and abruptly left the meeting. Some without a single word of goodbye, and others with parting shots so sharp, Jacob would need more than Vivian’s reinforced leather armor to shield himself from the wounds.
Half of those still present were visibly reserving judgment. Convinced by the evidence, but uncertain how to react to this new information.
The rest, however, had no such misgivings. They looked at Jacobas though he’d just admitted to taking his afternoon tea from the Holy Grail, when not slicing the accompanying cakes with the Excalibur sword.
“Out of the way,” said a chap called William, previously the most renowned of all the poets present. “I owe Jacob a fist to the gut for hiding this from us all these years.”
“Me next,” called one of the others, and cuffed Jacob lightly on the back of the head. “Take that, Sir Pseudonym!”
Handshakes and good-natured chiding abounded as the other remaining poets crowded around Jacob.
“Obviously our meeting isn’t adjourned just yet,” said their host. “I’ll ring for champagne. You’re not going anywhere until we have the full story.”
“It can’t leave this room,” Jacob said firmly. “Sir Gareth’s identity must remain a secret.”
Part of him worried that those who had already left would not be so faithful. The ever-humbling cut of logic, however, promised they’d be the last to spread the word. Either they didn’t believe him in the first place, or they resented him for his accomplishment. They would never breathe a word that might make himmorefamous.
“If I had half the success you do,” said their host, “I’d shout the truth to everyone who made the mistake of glancing in my direction.”
Jacob shook his head. “Swear to me. No one can know, until and unless I choose to divulge my identity of my own free will.”
They all gave their word, if reluctantly. Revealing Jallow’s true identity would have been the coup of the year for any of them.
“Can I get a quote from you to help me promote my upcoming anthology?” asked one of the poets.
“Can you give advice on my drafts?” asked one of the novices.
