Page 117 of The Pansy Paradox
Mort regards Henry with a cagey expression. He doesn’t believe any of this, that much I can tell. He doesn’t have any proof, though, to contradict Henry. That nervous fluttering starts up again, this time low in my belly. One of my best friends pitted against my … well, I’m not sure what Henry is. But it feels like a showdown.
“No other way around it, then,” Mort says at last. “We’ll have to go to the development and remember to turn our umbrellas on this time.”
“Do you think that’s wise?” Henry asks.
“To turn on our umbrellas? Well, yes, that’s the only way to collect data.” Then Mort slaps his forehead as if the thought has just occurred to him. “You mean going back? Don’t see how we can gather evidence otherwise.”
Henry ignores this sarcasm the same way a schoolmaster would ignore a student acting up in class. “You might want to review my report first.”
Before Mort can respond, I stand and pluck the teapot from the coffee table. With my back to Henry and Gwyneth, I hover in front of Mortimer.
“Stop being an ass.” I hiss these words, and then, louder, add, “More tea?” I pour him some before he can cover his cup with a hand. He’s getting more tea whether he likes it or not.
“Might as well,” he says, clearly resigned to another full serving. “Works as a prophylactic.” He raises an eyebrow at Henry. “Did you know that?”
Prophylactic, indeed. Of course it does, against Screamer toxin. Still. This entire situation is disintegrating. Mort is only going to get worse. I know these moods of his. I can’t bear to look at Henry, but my gaze finds Gwyneth’s.
She’s still wearing that shards-of-glass expression, as done with the testosterone in the room as much as I am. Her nod is so slight that it barely registers. Mort misses it entirely, and I’m not sure even Henry caught it.
“How do you propose we obtain these samples?” Her voice is as sharp as those shards and twice as deadly. “You can’t go alone.”
Apparently, patrolling isn’t under Gwyneth’s list of additional duties, because she sits back more snugly against Henry’s hip, crosses one leg over the other, and waits.
“Let’s see.” Mort points to himself and then each of us in turn. “Eeny, meeny, miny, Pansy. Up for a stroll?”
“Absolutely not,” Henry says.
Mort spares Henry a look. “I wasn’t speaking to you.” He swivels in his chair, shining his full attention on me. “How are you feeling, Pansy-Girl?”
“Good.” This is perhaps the truest thing I’ve uttered all day. Physically, I do feel fine. Not even my hip is troubling me that much.
“I still don’t think—” Henry begins.
“Gwennie.” Mort nods toward the briefcase still resting on the coffee table. “Do your doctor thing.”
Her lips compress into a hard, thin line. But she stands and opens her silver-sided briefcase. Because Mort is the response team lead, not even Henry can contradict his orders. The air in the room shifts, its flavor full of bitterness and resignation.
“There is one way to find out if Pansy is toxin-free,” Mort adds as Gwyneth places several items on the coffee table.
“It’s a relatively new development,” she says. “We’ve rolled it out to field agents on priority assignments. It’s not yet available to permanent post agents.”
Yes, why give us anything that might make our job easier?
“It won’t hurt, but I’ll need a little of your blood to run the test.” For the first time today, her eyes light with anticipation and satisfaction.
I suspect this will actually hurt. A lot.
On the coffee table, she’s readied a test strip, a lancet, a monitor, and alcohol wipes.
“It looks like a blood sugar monitor,” I say.
“Same principle.” Gwyneth pulls on some purple nitrile gloves. “Only we test for toxin, obviously.”
Well, yes. Obviously.
“Finger, please.”
The notion flits across my mind—no doubt encouraged by the Sight—of just what finger to give her. Behind me, Mortimer lets out a quiet snort. Instead, I choose to act like an adult, hold out my left hand, and offer up my index finger.
