He refills his teacup and then mine as if we’re two old acquaintances having a chat. “I was going to draft it first, send it to you”—he clears his throat—“and your mother, and then file it with the Academy to close out your record there.”
“And what were you going to do when whoever earmarked the Little line for retirement saw that report?”
“I would deal with those repercussions when and if they occurred.” His statement is so mild, so benign.
I’m not naïve when it comes to the Enclave and the High Council. My mother made sure of that. While the Academy is, officially, for training, it’s also for networking, building relationships, currying favor with those destined to sit on the High Council, generally the old families, but not always. I’m currently staring at a man who will assume his father’s seat on that High Council, providing he plays the right sort of games.
My examination report is not the right sort of game. Or rather, it is, as long as he abides by the predetermined outcome.
“You could lose your job.”
He gives a cavalier shrug. “Doubtful, but Enclave politics being what they are, possible.”
“I can’t let you do that. They might revoke your umbrella.”
From down the hall comes another rattle from the stand. I suspect it’s my umbrella, rather than Henry’s, and she’s ready to take on the entire Enclave.
“And I can’t file a false report. I cannot and will not lie for someone else’s agenda. I simply won’t do it.”
He won’t. I don’t need the Sight to tell me that. Here’s where Mort is wrong about Principal Field Agent Henry Darnelle. Does he follow rules? Oh, absolutely, but not when they contradict his true north.
“When do you need to file the report?”
“You heard Botten. The sooner, the better. But I figured I could give myself a week to finesse it, call in some favors, speak with a few of my father’s colleagues on the High Council.”
Translation: Henry Darnelle is not completely without friends and influence. But it might not be enough.
“Let me put it plainly, Pansy. I dislike being manipulated. I dislike the abdication of responsibility. And I will not be a party to it.”
There’s a low, growing warning in his voice, one that goes beyond mere anger. I would not want to be on the receiving end of that, and I almost pity the person who will be.
“A week,” I say, although now I’m simply musing out loud. “Do you think that would give us enough time?”
“Time for what?”
“To figure out what happened all those years ago? Maybe see if it has something to do with this so-called retirement. I mean, you already told Botten you’re staying.” I wave a hand around, indicating my kitchen and the entire house. “Can’t you draft your report here as well as Seattle?”
“Yes, but?—”
“So why don’t you?”
His gaze drops to my mother’s lists, still on the kitchen table. A sly grin lights his features. “Perhaps break some rules?”
“Why not? I’ve already broken a couple.”
He gives me a thoughtful nod. “We might be able to dig up some additional ammunition for my report.”
Honestly, I think he might mean ammunition in the literal sense. “Okay, then,” I say, because even if he doesn’t mean actual ammo, I like having an ally. “There’s plenty of extra bedrooms upstairs. Take your pick.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.” He shakes his head now, a full-on refusal. “I only said that to needle Botten.”
Well, yes. Obviously.
“I couldn’t impose,” he continues. “I’ll see if the bed and breakfast still has my?—”
“It’s summer. They won’t.”
“Well, I certainly can’t stay here.”
