She jabs me with the lancet. The sting radiates all the way to my wrist. And she massages my finger more aggressively than necessary to produce blood. But then I’m away, cotton swab against my sore finger, hoping for an all-clear.
The Sight hasn’t shown me much; I’ve been actively locking it down. But I know this. Staying in this room, or even this house, with all three of them? That will bring someone to the breaking point. A queasiness suggests that someone is me.
Mort has stood, and he’s leaning over the coffee table, gaze locked on the monitor’s screen. It beeps rather cheerfully, and he straightens, a huge grin on his face.
“Looks like you’re good to go, Pansy-Girl. Rose’s tea does it every time.” He downs the last of his and turns to Gwyneth. “Really, you should take some of this back to the lab. It’s better than anything R&D has put out in the last five years.”
That’s awfully specific, and perfectly awful for Mort to phrase it that way. No, I don’t know how long Gwyneth has been in her position in R&D, but I suspect it’s been at least five years.
“I’ll look into it,” Gwyneth says, jaw stiff.
Oh, no, she will not.
A thump sounds above our heads. My umbrella, beside herself with excitement. Mort gives an indulgent smile toward the ceiling.
“Someone’s ready to go. Grab your things, and we’ll head out.”
I’m at the door when Henry’s voice stops me.
“Agent Little?”
I turn and meet his gaze as best I can. It’s like that earlier sting, fleeting but still oh so real.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says. “If you’re not feeling up to it.”
“She’s fine,” Mort insists.
I wonder what it is Henry thinks I should do. His expression is unfathomable, like when we first met. His demeanor is absolutely correct, and he looks the part of a field agent recovering after a major attack. And yet. So many emotions swirl through the air. So many agendas. Really, it’s a passive-aggressive free-for-all. I’m not sure what Henry wants me to do, but if nothing else, I need to get out of the house.
“I’m okay,” I say to him. I try to channel meaning or subtext, or whatever it is he’s so good at, into my words. “Besides, after yesterday, I should really check on the fence.”
“Always practical, our Pansy-Girl,” Mort says. “Go on, I’ll meet you on the porch.”
I leave the tea things behind, certain I’ll be cleaning them up later. I find my umbrella at the threshold of my bedroom. Honestly, she’d throw herself down the stairs if it got us out of the house any faster.
“Are you ready?” I say to her.
Oh, she most definitely is.
Chapter 50
Ophelia
King’s End, Minnesota
Friday, July 14
“Why do you reek?” Gwyneth shoots to her feet and rounds the coffee table as if that will help her escape the stench of tea tree oil and eucalyptus.
Ah, yes, Ophelia thinks. Her presumptive sister-in-law. Always the charmer. As is the entire Worthington-Wells clan. Ophelia should know. She’s betrothed to Gwyneth’s twin brother, Wendell Worthington-Wells, who insists on being called Big W, which is wrong on so many levels.
These sorts of arranged marriages are what make the Enclave tick. It also makes the entire enterprise slightly incestuous. Nepotism, at least in the Enclave, is a feature, not a bug. In any event, they’ll have to drag Ophelia to the altar. Henry, too, by the looks of it.
A deep furrow carves a line between his eyebrows. He wants nothing more than for Gwyneth to leave the room. It’s a wish Gwyneth is studiously ignoring.
“I seriously want to know.” She glances around as if both the smell and the décor are offensive. “Why do you reek? I can barely stay in this room.”
Just wait.
