For a moment, Henry shuts his eyes. When he opens them, the steel has returned. He points to the Tupperware container that’s rolled to the floor. Gwyneth bends down to retrieve it. Yes, her presumptive sister-in-law is many things, but she certainly doesn’t lack curiosity. Without hesitation, Gwyneth cracks the lid.
The odor barges into the space. Ophelia imagines that it’s corporeal, a living, breathing stink bomb that doesn’t plan on taking any prisoners.
Gwyneth slams the lid shut, gagging and gasping for air.
“Are you kidding me? This?” She hefts the container and then tosses it across the room. “And this?” She flicks a dismissive fingernail against the teapot, and the porcelain cries out. “Explain to me, please, why you’re being subjected to nineteenth-century cures.”
“Because they work.”
“I have given you everything from R&D.”
Of course. The idea, the certainty, that Principal Field Agent Henry Darnelle owes his life not to his skill but to the largesse of R&D, or rather, its head researcher.
“And if I had used everything from R&D yesterday, we wouldn’t be sitting here, having this conversation. Best case scenario? Emergency airlift back to Seattle. Or the more leisurely option of a body bag.”
“But the epi-pens, the balm?—”
“Only work for so long. The balm is dangerous after a certain point, as I’ve mentioned before, and the epi-pens lose their effectiveness over time.” Henry’s voice softens. “I’ve been in the field for a decade, and it’s been years since something has worked as well as Agent Little’s home remedies.”
“Then perhaps it’s time for you to come out of the field.”
“I won’t argue that point.”
Not that Henry doesn’t want to. Dragging him out of the field will be as challenging as dragging him to the altar.
“You know I’m not anti-science,” he continues, “and that I admire the work you do. But what if this—” He nods at the teapot. “And that.” A chin-tilt toward the wayward Tupperware. “Could augment your research?”
“You’re asking me to keep an open mind.”
“I believe I am, yes.”
Gwyneth heaves a sigh, the sound far happier than the situation warrants. Ophelia swirls around the coffee table, wondering what it is her presumptive sister-in-law is up to.
“Then, perhaps—” Gwyneth picks her way across the floor and takes up a seat on the coffee table. “You’ll return the favor?”
“I will certainly try.”
“Honor our betrothal.”
Henry stares, expression blank. It isn’t often someone can knock her brother speechless, but Gwyneth certainly has. Maybe it’s a pretext, or maybe he simply needs the strength, but he points to his teacup and remains silent while Gwyneth—somewhat reluctantly, it’s true—pours another serving. Henry sips, eyes closed, as if gathering the patience for this conversation.
“Gwyneth, we’ve talked about this, and I thought?—”
“You don’t understand. What I’m proposing is a marriage of the minds.”
Oh, no, honey, you should not be proposing anything at all.
But her face glows, and Ophelia thinks of the expression stars in her eyes. But what, exactly, is making them glitter like that? Love? Certainly not. This is a woman who has mapped her future down to the last meticulous detail. Judging by the way she’s gazing at Henry, he is key to much of it.
“Marriage of the minds,” he says, lips pursing ever so slightly.
“We can’t play anymore, Henry. We need to assume our intended roles in the Enclave.” Gwyneth nods at the band on Henry’s ring finger. “That means honoring our betrothal. Otherwise, I’ll go no further than research flunky, and you’ll simply burn out.” She tilts her head. “If you’re lucky, that is. Or there’s the more permanent option of a body bag.”
Henry finishes the tea and heaves a sigh of his own. Before he can speak, Gwyneth raises a finger. “Open mind. I will look into that”—a barely-there nod toward the Tupperware container—“and you’ll hear me out.”
“Go ahead.”
“Your father’s allies could be yours, for the asking.” Gwyneth leans forward, warming to the subject. “They’re waiting, in fact, hoping you’ll assume his seat on the High Council. Think of it! Principal Field Agent before twenty-five, High Council member before thirty. Not even your father did that!”
