Page 49 of Under Arthur’s Protection

I couldn’t.

Go back in and ask your questions.

An umbrella appeared over my head. Arthur walked beside me, matching my pace, the sword case in his other hand. He didn’t say anything. He just kept me dry and kept his eyes forward.

And I just kept on walking.

Chapter 16

Arthur

The self-service restaurant on the ferry was half full. Three hours ago, the rain had started coming down harder, and I’d finally convinced Gwen to walk back to the car. She’d opted not to change into dry clothes and shivered through the first fifteen minutes of our drive to Plymouth. Afterward, she’d napped until we arrived at the ferry station.

Through the window, the English coast faded in the blur of the rain. Families with children filled most of the tables, but there were a few couples with wine, and a group of eight older men wearing matching shirts who must have been part of a club. The sword case sat on the bench beside me.

Gwen ordered the fish. I ordered the fish, too. If Lance had been here, he would have pointed that out. But Lance wasn’t here. Which was part of the problem, and I needed to stop thinking about it. Either way, I changed my mind and asked for the chicken.

Gwen ate without talking. I’d had plenty of clients who refused to talk to me after I’d enforced security rules. But that was about shutting me out. This was about shutting herself down.

“How’s the fish?” I asked.

“It’s fine.”

“What about the sauce?”

She dragged her fork through it. “I think it’s supposed to be tartar.”

“Supposed to be?”

“It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever eaten.”

Half of me expected a laugh. As though maybe she’d intentionally echoed my line about the Chalice Well water, but the moment flew by in more silence.

I’d been turning Glastonbury over since we left. The research had been fruitful, and from Gwen’s excitement, she’d found details that would help her put her puzzle together. But Fergus’s sister had walked in, and five minutes later Gwen was out the door, walking in the rain.

A pretty smile and a low-cut shirt.

‘Excuse me?’ was all I’d managed. Two words, then nothing, because Gwen was already closing her notebook and heading for the door. If I’d said anything more, I’d have been speaking for her, and that wasn’t how I operated.

My father still spoke for my mother every fucking time I saw them.

But maybe, sometimes, it was justified. In Hopkins’s office, I’d stood by the door and watched her cave. At the shop, I’d barely opened my mouth before she’d headed for the door. I was 0-for-2, and it was getting to me.

You should have stood up for her.

“Fergus emailed me more documents while we were driving.” Gwen pushed a piece of fish around her plate. “More parish records referencing the boundary marker and photos of the pages we were discussing before…”

Before she’d folded one more time, and her light had dimmed even further.

“Anything useful?” I asked.

“I’m not sure yet. I need to sit down with them properly.”

The conversation died. Again.

I cut into my chicken, almost uncomfortable eating when she didn’t seem able to. Behind us, one of the children shrieked, and a mother’s voice rose in rapid French.

Gwen poked at her fish. “I bet Hettie made better fish than this.”