Page 51 of Under Arthur’s Protection

I stood and paced toward the door as I answered. “Hey. Where are you?”

“Hotel near the archive. It’s gorgeous here—which you’d know if you hadn’t sent me to do the boring job.” He sounded rested, which meant he’d slept on the flight. “Where are you two?”

“On the ferry. About an hour out of Plymouth.”

“The train would have been faster.”

“I didn’t want to get a new car. Did you talk to Morganna?”

“Yep.” He wasn’t outwardly hostile, but he was clearly pissed at my decision to split us up.

“And?”

“She’s making progress on the journalist but won’t commit to a timeline. Said she’s peeling back layers and it’s slow going. I told her slow wasn’t good enough, and she told me to—well, you can imagine what Morganna told me.”

Likely, she’d warned him she’d hack into his bank account and spend all of his money. None of us were sure she was capable of that, but she liked to threaten it.

“She also said she’d have details by the end of the week. Whether she means a name or another excuse, I have no idea.”

“I may need to visit her in person and convince her to come on full time. This is getting ridiculous.”

“You do. Now give the phone to Gwen. I want to talk to her.”

I walked toward her. “Lance wants to talk to you.”

When she nodded, I tapped the speaker button, and she said, “Hi, Lance.”

“How was Glastonbury?” he asked.

She closed her laptop partway, and I put the phone on the table next to her. “Fergus gave me some helpful information, like a report from 1802 that describes lettering in the tower before the Victorian restoration.”

“So it’s not Victorian?”

“It might not be.” She continued filling him in on the details. She was more animated talking to him than she’d been the rest of the day. Her hands moved when she described Fergus’s documents. She leaned forward. She actually smiled while she spoke about the photos she was reviewing.

She made no mention of Fergus’s sister or the comments about her neckline. Nothing about leaving before she was done or walking in the rain.

“Sounds like progress,” Lance said. “Arthur, anything on your end?”

“Nothing. I’ll check in when we dock.”

“Get some sleep. Both of you.” He hung up.

On the television, a pod of dolphins broke the surface in slow motion.

Gwen opened her laptop fully. The energy from the call was draining out of her, her shoulders settling into the same posture she’d carried since Glastonbury. She’d lit up for Lance like she lit up for the sword, the church tower, and the inscription. For the things that excited her mind. Then something would come along and switch the light off, and she’d sit like this—staring at a screen she wasn’t truly seeing.

I pulled the tray of desserts from the fridge, set it on the table with two forks, and took my lemon square to the couch.

Gwen closed her laptop and picked up a fork. She took a bite of the chocolate cake and closed her eyes. For a few seconds, whatever had sent her out into the rain wasn’t in the room with us. It was like feeding her bakery-fresh bread dipped in garlic oil. Her chest swelled, and she let out a little sigh that I felt low in my belly.

“Good?”

“Surprisingly good.”

“What about Fergus’s email?” I broke off a piece of the lemon square with my fork. “If that’s what you’re reading?”

“He has better source material than half the published academics in the field,” Gwen said. “And he’s running a gift shop in Glastonbury.”