With whispered thanks, I pass him the monstrous thing. It fairly quivers with pleasure at a job well done. Agent Darnelle tilts his head and regards the umbrella before securing the strap and hanging it back on his arm.
“I’ve been trying to contact your mentor,” he says.
That’s going to be difficult.
“She hasn’t been answering her phone.”
And she won’t be. I let his words hang in the air, feeling both irritated and bereft. I want to savor this tiny triumph, root out any last bits of discontent, and banish the Screamers—at least, for another day—not deal with Henry Darnelle and the Enclave.
“She’s gone,” I say once the silence between us becomes not just awkward but oppressive.
Instead of sympathy, confusion plays across his features. He frowns in what looks like consternation. “So, she’s left you to complete the examination on your own?”
Technically, that’s true, so I nod.
“Really?”
I nod again.
His brow unfurls, and delight chases the confusion from his expression. “Well, that’s something. I find it’s so much better when mentors allow their apprentices to do that.”
He doesn’t know. The Enclave doesn’t know. Relief blooms in my chest. They don’t know. Not yet. That can only be good.
“I will have to confer with her at the end, of course, give her my full report.”
I nod, yet again, without conceding anything. If I make it through my examination, I’ll deal with any repercussions then.
Henry Darnelle rubs his hands together, almost in anticipation. “Here’s what I suggest. We’ll meet at your house tomorrow morning. In fact, I’ll bring breakfast. We’ll create a plan for your examination, one that lets you complete your daily duties. The intent is not to disrupt your routine.”
Right. Because having someone scrutinize your every move is never disruptive, especially when that someone holds your future in his hands.
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow. In that single move, Henry Darnelle transforms from exceptional field agent into judgmental schoolmaster. Of course, there are no weekends or holidays for the Enclave. It’s not like the Screamers take time off.
“Tomorrow’s fine.” I sigh. “What time?”
“Seven work for you?”
“In the morning?”
“I am bringing breakfast.”
A sarcastic and ill-advised reply lingers just behind my teeth. I can taste the consequences, and they are sour and fetid, indeed.
“We’ll start then,” he adds as if that settles it.
But he continues to hover, and his intent rolls off him. He saw me dispatch the Screamers. Now? He wants to see if I can stand. Without my knees buckling. Without staggering across the lawn, punch-drunk from my encounter. Without, of course, any help.
My examination has already begun.
I clamber to my feet, forcing a bright expression onto my face as if all I’ve been doing is napping in the sun. I even smile, although it’s hardly convincing. Together, we head toward the pedestrian mall.
“The farmers market here is quite impressive,” he says, voice raised since there’s a good eight feet between us. “Wish my room had a kitchen.”
“Where are you staying?” I shove politeness into my reply, but really, I want to know what part of town to avoid.
“Riverside Bed and Breakfast.”
