Page 132 of Whispers of Wisteria
What was that supposed to mean?
Gloria waved her hand at me. “Bianca,” she said, making a vague motion to the right. “Be a dear and go sit over there.” I looked, and there was a flat stone protruding from the ground. “Right there,” she said, pointing. “See.”
“Um…” Where was she going with this? “And do… what exactly?”
“Wait,” Gloria replied. She put on a pair of sunglasses and leaned back into her seat.
But how could she see anything? It was so dark!
“And?” I asked.
Gloria shrugged. “Look cute. It shouldn’t be too hard.”
“O-okay…” My skin grew hot. I wasn’t sure why she had so much faith in me. I stepped onto the stone and sat on my knees, never feeling more foolish than in this moment.
I’d expected a fanfare, or at leastsomething, based on her reaction, but Gloria only laid back and linked her hands behind her head. After some moments of silence, I assumed that she’d fallen asleep.
Meanwhile, Dr. Sartore had begun to pace again, this time circling me in a most unnerving manner. Her attention, however, remained outward towards the graveyard.
I didn’t understand what this was supposed to accomplish.
Yet the moments passed, and nothing happened. All this sitting around doing nothing grew very boring. The graveyard itself was unexciting, and even the fog had lost its creepiness under the weight of the two shifters milling about.
I doubted that anyone or anything would attack us here.
What was the plan? Were we just supposed to wait for Cécile to pop out from behind a headstone? This was going to take forever.
I sighed and pulled my backpack to the front of me. Thankfully, I was prepared for such a situation.
“What are you doing?” Dr. Sartore stopped and frowned down at my hands. “What is that?”
I froze, the candy bar halfway to my mouth, and blinked at her. “Chocolate?”
Weren’t shifters supposed to have enhanced senses? The smell of chocolate should have been pretty distinguishable.
“I am aware!” she snapped. “But who eats during a rescue mission?”
Was that what this was? I was starting to think I may have been misled.
Or maybe she was hungry.
I glanced back at my food—the bar of sweet goodness was already softening under the heat of my fingers.
“It’s real German chocolate,” I said. For some reason, my statement came out as a question, as if the purity of thechocolate-to-milk ratio would make a difference. I broke off a piece and held it toward the angry woman.
Perhaps she just needed a healthy dosage of tryptophan. “Here,” I offered.
She reached for it, lips pursing as her nostrils flared, and her fingers were inches away before I recalled one crucial detail.
“Wait—” My pulse skipped, and I pulled my hand back, ignoring the flash of annoyance in her eyes.
“Dr. Sartore—”
“Call me Ada,” she said harshly, but I didn’t take offense. “You make it sound too formal.”
Let her be annoyed; I refused to have her die on my watch. “Can hyenas eat chocolate?”
Instead of getting angry, her expression softened slightly. “Are you worried about me?”
