Marvin nodded, then changed the subject.
"So... how's the script coming along?"
Peter's excitement disappeared almost instantly. His shoulders sagged. "Honestly?"
Marvin waited.
"It's been a nightmare." He let out a weary sigh. "My original plan was three films."
He held up three fingers. "Then Harvey talked me into two."
His hand slowly lowered. "And now..."
Peter shook his head. "...now he wants one."
Marvin frowned. "One film?"
The words hung in the air as memories from another life surfaced unbidden. In that world, *The Lord of the Rings* had been brought to the screen as three films, shot back-to-back and remembered as one of cinema's greatest trilogies.
Trying to squeeze that story into a single movie? With him here, it bordered on sacrilege. He looked back at Peter. "What happened?"
Peter nodded bitterly. "He says there's no budget for anything bigger. Says Miramax can't gamble on three fantasy movies."
Marvin was quiet for a moment. For a brief moment, Marvin just stared at him.
Harvey Weinstein had walked away with well over two hundred million dollars in profit from The Sixth Sense, and now he was claiming the studio didn't have the cash?
Marvin almost laughed. It was the oldest trick in Hollywood. Cry poverty. Plead caution. Squeeze the other side until they settled for less. Instead of irritating him, the excuse brought a slow smile to Marvin's face.
Trying to squeeze an epic into something smaller and cheaper.
The board had just changed. And he liked the position he was in.
A slow smile spread across Marvin's face. His mind wandered back to the bow hanging on the wall... and to the conversation he'd just had with his grandfather. "Peter."
Peter looked up.
"If money is the only obstacle..." Marvin folded his arms. "...then let me remove it."
Peter stared.
"I'll invest."
Silence.
"We make the trilogy."
Peter's mouth fell open. "...You're serious?"
"Completely."
Marvin's voice remained calm. "If Harvey decides he doesn't want to make three films, then we'll find another way."
Marvin shrugged. "If necessary, I'll buy Miramax's position and renegotiate with the Tolkien Estate directly."
Peter simply stared at him. For several seconds he couldn't speak.
Then an enormous grin spread across his face.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
"Oh my God, you are such an angel to me, Marvin!" He laughed in disbelief and threw both hands into the air. "Marvin, you're unbelievable."
He took two excited steps forward before catching himself. "You save me from getting eaten by leopards..." He laughed again. "...and now you're saving my movie."
Marvin chuckled and held up a hand. "Let's not celebrate yet."
Peter stopped. "I haven't read your script."
His expression became serious. "If I'm going to invest that kind of money, I need to know exactly what we're making. I want to see your version of Middle-earth."
Peter nodded so hard his messy hair bounced.
"Absolutely."
His enthusiasm came roaring back. "I've rewritten it so many times I've practically memorized every page."
He pointed toward the study. "I'll get you the latest draft. You can start reading today."
….
…
..
.
---
With the arrival of June, schools across the United States went on vacation, and the movie market entered its hottest, most lucrative summer season.
Marvin had been gone for eleven days.
His return to Los Angeles was a blur of maneuvering as he returned earlier than planned because of dubbing problems. There was a heat in it that went beyond temperature—a kind of atmospheric electricity Marvin had been feeling since January. It built slowly through the first half of the year, the way pressure builds in a system that hasn't yet found a release point. The tech sector was doing things the financial press struggled to describe with the conventional vocabulary of market analysis. That vocabulary had been built for markets operating within the recognizable boundaries of economic reality.
But in the summer of 1999, the Nasdaq Composite decided, with the serene confidence of something that had forgotten what gravity felt like, that those boundaries were someone else's problem.
The index had crossed three thousand for the first time in history in early June.
Three thousand.
Financial commentators spent two days marking the occasion with a combination of celebration and the vague unease humans produce when something they've watched ascend for a long time reaches a height that makes the ground difficult to look at directly.
The bulls cited the productivity revolution, the network effects of the internet economy, and the fundamental repricing of growth assets in a world where the cost of information distribution had fallen to zero. The bears—fewer of them now, their ranks thinned by two years of being wrong in public—muttered about price-to-earnings ratios and the absence of profits in companies whose valuations had crossed into theoretical territory.
Marvin had read all of it. He found the bulls more persuasive in their arguments, but more wrong in their conclusions. The productivity revolution was real. The network effects were real. The fundamental repricing of certain assets was real. All of those things were true.
And the market had taken all of them, added a considerable quantity of pure speculative momentum, and produced valuations that bore a relationship to the underlying reality roughly equivalent to a man's shadow at noon compared to his shadow at four o'clock—the same object, the same source, but stretched by a particular quality of light into something unrecognizable.
The light was going to change. Marvin knew exactly when.
But it was 1999, and the light was still doing what it had been doing for three years. There were nine months of it remaining.
Nine months was enough time to make an extraordinary amount of money. Provided you knew—with the specific, unambiguous certainty that distinguishes foreknowledge from forecast—exactly when to stop.
The meetings with Andrew Cohen ran across a full day in the Century City conference room, which had become the functional headquarters for complex strategic discussions that the Laurel Canyon home office was too domestic and exposed to handle.
The room had a whiteboard that Marvin filled and erased twice over the hours. The rectangular table seated twelve but held only four: Marvin, Andrew, Grant, and Gerald Hoffman, whose presence was required whenever discussions touched the tax architecture of decisions of this scale.
The meetings were over now. The whiteboard had been erased a final time. The decisions were made. The documentation was being prepared by Hoffman's office and two attorneys from the New York firm handling the securities law compliance.
The following morning, Marvin sat down with Edward Holt, Scarlet Capital's lead counsel.
As always, Holt arrived carrying a thick stack of paperwork—licensing agreements, acquisition contracts, copyright filings, and enough legal documents to bury a normal person before lunch.
Most of the signatures and financial transfers would ultimately go through Grant, but every major deal still passed across Marvin's desk first. If his name was attached to it, he wanted to know exactly what he was agreeing to.
Holt delivered the legal updates with the even, unhurried cadence of a man who had quickly learned that the fastest way to get Marvin to process dense information was to present it without drama, step back, and let the boy reach his own conclusions.
The candles had burned down to soft golden pools by the time Linda set down her wine glass. She looked at her son with the kind of gaze that had stripped away pretense since he was four years old. The dining room was warm, insulated from the chill by the estate's centuries-old stone and the particular hush that fell when the staff retreated, leaving the family alone.
Marvin cut his venison into precise, methodical pieces. Too precise, perhaps. The knife moved with his usual economy of motion—no wasted energy, no hesitation. But Linda saw what others didn't: the slight tension in his shoulder, the way he blinked a fraction too slowly, as if his mind were running calculations in a language she couldn't speak.
"You don't have to do everything at once," she said softly.
Marvin looked up. His eyes met hers with that disarming calm that had always unsettled her. Even as an infant, he'd been composed. "I'm not doing everything at once, Mom. I'm sequencing."
"That's not what she means, son." Grant spoke from the head of the table, his voice rougher than his father's, shaped by different corridors of power. He set down his fork and studied Marvin. "She's asking if you're trying to outrun something."
The silence that followed was intimate, weighted with the history of three people who had learned to read the spaces between words.
Marvin set down his knife. "New Zealand was good for me," he said quietly. "Gordon drove me through places where the hills look like they've been there since the earth forgot to be angry. I slept, Mom. Really slept. I walked on beaches where there was no one to recognize me, no scripts to revise, no markets to consider." He paused, and for a moment he looked his age—thirteen. "I discovered something very important about myself there; I deposited something I needed to get back."
Linda felt her throat tighten. She remembered the photographs Gordon had sent—her son in a wool sweater, standing on a cliff edge with his hair wild from the wind, looking at the horizon like he was memorizing it. He'd looked human in those photos. Breakable, in a way that terrified her.
"We saw the video," Grant said quietly. Not accusing. Just a fact.
Marvin didn't flinch. "I know."
"Your grandfather called us yesterday." Linda reached across the table, settling her hand gently on his wrist. She could feel his pulse—steady, strong, terrifying in its regularity. "He told us what you're asking him to arrange."
"It's already in motion, then."
"Marvin." Grant leaned forward, the candlelight catching the grey at his temples. "Do you understand what you're stepping into? This isn't like the studio. This isn't publishing or music or any of the things you've built. This is—" He stopped, searching for words. "—this is a stage where the lights don't flatter. Where the audience doesn't love you yet."
"I know."
"You *know*," Linda repeated, her voice cracking slightly. She withdrew her hand and pressed her fingers to her lips, composing herself. When she spoke again, it was with the controlled precision of a woman who had spent years managing the chaos of genius in her household. "Darling, we've watched you since you were small. In these years we've seen you master things that take other people lifetimes. We've celebrated with you. We've protected you when the world got too loud." She paused. "But this... this is different. This is Sydney. This is a selection process that won't care about your family account numbers. And if you fail—when people see you fail—"
"I won't fail.".
"You might," Grant said gently. "Everyone might. That's what sport is. It's not the movies. There's no second take when you stand on that line. No editor to make the moment heroic. Just you, the target, and the weight of knowing a billion people are watching to see if the boy wonder can actually do it, or if he's just playing dress-up in his family name's influence."
Marvin was quiet for a long moment. Outside, an owl called from the gardens.
"Do you remember," Marvin said slowly, "when I was nine, and I wanted to learn piano? You thought it was too much. I was already doing the fencing, already reading at college level, already—"
"You proved us wrong," Linda whispered.
"No." Marvin shook his head. "I proved that your worry was love, but it wasn't a prophecy. I'm not stretching myself thin, Mom. I'm stretching into the shape I want to be." He looked at his father. "You asked if I'm running from something. I'm not. I'm running *toward* something. The New Zealand trip showed me that. I need to know if the skill is real. If *I'm* real, beneath all the construction."
Grant exhaled sharply, a sound that was half laugh, half surrender. "Christ, Linda. He's worse than old man ever was."
"Don't blaspheme," Linda said automatically, but she was smiling through her tears now. "And don't encourage him."
"I'm not encouraging him. I'm *recognizing* him." Grant stood, moving around the table with the grace of a man who had made his own peace with ambition long ago. He stood behind Marvin's chair and placed his hands on his son's shoulders, feeling the lean muscle, the tension, and the potential. "The committee your grandfather knows—they'll test you in ways that have nothing to do with it. They'll want to see if you can survive the pressure of being *you* in a venue where your name means nothing."
"I understand."