“You might be overselling it with most beloved.”
“Hm. Perhaps.”
“Half the High Council will be popping champagne corks tonight.”
“I might join them.”
Oh, and there’s that Enclave malice.
“You’re not worried about the others, what they might say?” Mort asks.
“What can they say? I mean, without implicating themselves. We were all hand-picked, the best of Botten’s Best.” This pause is contemplative. “No, it will just be one of those things, like any other Enclave mishap.”
“That will dog us the rest of our days.”
“Like any other mishap.” Gwyneth’s voice is unusually precise. “With the after-action review tucked away in the files to gather dust. Just like Florence.”
My ears prick up at that, but it’s not like I’m participating in this conversation, such as it is.
“No one’s blackmailing anyone, not over this,” she continues. “At worst, we’ll have to make awkward small talk at social functions.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Mort gives a curt laugh. “I always wondered why my parents hated Enclave parties.”
“Not all parties.” This response, I’m certain, is too soft and too sly to reach Mort.
“She’s coming to,” he says.
Am I? I hope so, because I have questions, lots of them. Before I can pry open my eyes, something seductive flows through my veins, mingling with what must be Mort’s blood. The sweetness of sleep is too tempting, the weight of it too sure. I forget my questions. I float, in and out, in and out, until I land in a dream.
In my dream, I hear the sounds of camp being struck, the clang of equipment, the rumble of vehicles. In my dream, someone squeezes my hand and places a gentle and reverent kiss on my forehead.
In my dream, someone tells me goodbye.
There are voices. But that’s not all there are. Creaking boards, far below on the front porch. Warm sunshine against my eyelids. The yip of a small dog and the robust bark of a larger one.
A doorbell.
My bedroom is bright and cozy. That’s startling. Even more so? I’m in bed, also perfectly cozy, wrapped in the cocoon of the comforter. The clock on the nightstand reads 3:05. The only clue something might be amiss—other than waking at three in the afternoon—is the pink medical wrap around the crook of my left elbow and the gauze it’s holding in place.
The bell rings again.
I ease from bed, test the floor and my balance, but really, I’m feeling fine. A little groggy. My mouth tastes like cotton and quicksilver. Before the doorbell rings again, I head downstairs.
Belatedly, I think to check a mirror and duck into the powder room beneath the stairs. If I peer closely, the remains of a bruise are still evident. With careful fingers, I probe. The slightest ache, and then it evaporates. More like the memory of a bruise than an actual one.
I’m not sure how, but it’s fortunate, because on my front porch is a crowd. Guy and Milo, Adele and Matilda, Prince and Tiny, these last two straining at their leashes and scrabbling against the wood slats. Everyone has a box, a bag, or a bottle of something.
Adele beams at me, crinkles deepening around her eyes. “We were worried you might be out on rounds.”
Rounds? I suppose that’s something I need to do. Maybe? But I’m not going anywhere at the moment.
“I don’t understand,” I say because I’m not sure what’s brought some of my favorite people, and dogs, to my front porch.
They grin at each other, co-conspirators in my confusion. Then Guy lifts the lid on an enormous box to reveal a cake, one with chocolate frosting and decorated with pink polka dots.
“Happy birthday, Pansy-Girl,” he says.
In the stand next to the door, my umbrella pops out of stealth mode and flutters in excitement.
