Henry considered this, considered what his own eyes and umbrella were telling him—and considered whether Botten was bullshitting him.
“It’s my personal belief that Rose has been covering for Pansy all these years,” Botten continued. “Any data from the umbrella will pollute your evaluation.”
“Do you have proof of this accusation?” Because it was an accusation, and a serious one at that. In theory, Rose, as Pansy’s mentor, could use her daughter’s umbrella. His father had, from time to time, shown Henry techniques not just with his own umbrella but with Henry’s as well. It was a way to train them both. But long-term patrolling?
Henry didn’t buy it.
“I’ve known Rose since my own Academy days,” Botten said, as if that settled the matter.
That was hardly proof.
“I know how she operates,” Botten added as if in answer to Henry’s silent objection. “No one could blame her for wanting to continue the line. Her parents vanished on a field mission when she and her sister Marigold were still fairly young. Then Marigold herself vanished a dozen years ago. Pansy is the last, and she simply isn’t strong enough to continue the line. Rose has anticipated this, and she’s used every delay tactic to keep it from coming to pass.”
The last of the Little line. This still wasn’t proof, but behind Botten’s unseemly upbeat recitation was a vast and unsettling gulf—of loneliness and heartbreak—even if the man couldn’t sense it. Henry could, although Ophelia was far better at detecting unspoken stories beneath mere words.
“I want to conduct a fair evaluation,” Henry said at last.
“Which is why I selected you in the first place. I know you won’t be swayed by what Rose has to say. Or, for that matter”—and now Botten’s voice turned sly—“what I might say.”
He had to give Botten credit for that. Henry wouldn’t be swayed.
“So, my boy, when do you think you’ll have this wrapped up?”
“Without the umbrella data? A few more days, at least, maybe a week.”
An irritated exhale told him that was the wrong answer. Like Henry cared what Botten thought.
“Very well. See that you check in from time to time.” Botten disconnected the call without further instruction or goodbye.
And that was that.
Except. Henry didn’t need those extra days, although he was determined to take them. He’d known the outcome of this examination from the moment Pansy had run off with his umbrella to tackle that pocket of discontent, one she’d detected before he had. Granted, she was outside, and he was absorbed in all the offerings at The King’s Larder.
Still. His lips twitched with chagrin.
She’d stolen his umbrella, stolen it, and done the impossible. She’d dispatched the Screamers while barely breaking a sweat. With his umbrella. His finely tuned, customized umbrella, the one only he, as a principal field agent, should be able to use.
Did she even know that? Henry spun his coffee cup and pondered the question.
Certainly, they covered umbrella handling at the Academy. Outside of mentoring, using another agent’s umbrella didn’t work, not the way your own did. You might as well grab a store-bought one, of which there were plenty in King’s End, sprouting from storefronts like bouquets. And a principal field agent’s umbrella? The last time someone had snatched his umbrella without permission, they’d regretted it. The fact that that someone had been Mortimer Connolly was a bonus.
“You didn’t even bother with a shock, did you?”
Nothing but resolute silence as a reply.
His umbrella had known from the start and had intuitively established a rapport with an unfamiliar agent. That evening, when Henry had reviewed the data from the skirmish, he’d known as well. He could’ve written up his report, turned it in, and flown standby back to Seattle.
Not that he planned on confessing that to anyone, Reginald Botten in particular.
Instead, he’d plodded on with the charade, choosing to believe he was here to retire the line, while behaving like a cur and a cad and, frankly, a pretentious asshole.
And then the funeral. And her expression. Oh, god, her expression. The sheer agony of it. He could taste the grief rolling off her. Yes, she’d lost someone, and recently. Perhaps he was a cur and a cad and a pretentious asshole for not asking, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so.
All he could do was follow her through the chain link and stop the Screamers from ruining yet another graveside service.
But now he had questions. About Rose and Pansy Little. About that strange, surreal stretch of land called Camelot Lots. Fortunately, he also had a trunk full of equipment. He closed his laptop and glanced at his umbrella.
“Ready?”
