Only then did Gwyneth shift in her seat, head turning slightly. “What are you saying, Henry?”
“I believe I already told you. It’s not going to end like you think it will.”
When Botten stepped from that second vehicle, Henry knew he was right.
Chapter 80
Pansy
King’s End, Minnesota
Saturday, July 15
I make my own tea. This, I insist upon. Jack hovers, but I don’t let him close enough to help. I pull vials with unbroken seals from the pantry, run the water myself, and watch while steam coils in the air.
With this last, I hope that adage is true that a watched pot never boils. Perhaps we, the world, everything can remain like this, perpetually waiting for my tea to brew.
Of course the water boils. I suspect that at the end of the world, time moves very quickly indeed.
The tea steeps, and Jack makes me some toast. I doubt you can poison toast, so I trust him with this. I train my gaze on Mortimer, who’s standing with arms crossed over his chest, a petulant frown on his face. I have so many questions, but the one that springs from my mouth surprises even me.
“Why don’t you like Henry?”
Mort gives a dismissive snort, as if the answer is far too obvious. “You didn’t grow up in the Enclave, in Seattle.” His expression turns sour. “You didn’t grow up with Darnelle.”
What that has to do with it, I’m not sure, but Mort isn’t finished.
“Oh, he loves his rules and his protocols, but he doesn’t believe they apply to him.”
I’m pretty sure Mort just described himself. Jack’s gaze touches mine, and I catch the barest hint of an eyeroll.
“Jesus, you should’ve heard my old man over the years,” Mort continues, warming to the subject. “It was constant. I mean constant. ‘Why can’t you be more like the Darnelle boy?’”
Oh. A sudden sharp pain stabs my heart, despite everything Mort has done, has kept from me. Living with something like that? I can’t imagine it. Yes, my mother always encouraged me to appear unremarkable.
She never made me feel that way.
“The man is an insufferable prick,” he adds, as if this is the last word on the subject.
And I don’t know if Mort means his father, Henry, or both.
I try to carry the tea things upstairs myself, but Jack insists on helping. His eyes are so sad that I relent. We’re in my room when he speaks, and his voice is a match for his eyes.
“Pansy, what’s going on?”
I don’t know what to tell him.
“Mort’s lying,” he adds. “I know he is.”
“I know he is, too.” And it hurts my heart all over again.
“And Gwyneth?” Jack shakes his head. “I don’t understand anything about Gwyneth.”
I’m certain no one does.
Jack lets out a long breath, as if he’s afraid to touch this next subject. “What’s Botten after?”
I suppose this question makes sense, that Jack’s ability would lead him to the culprit in all this.
