Page 134 of The Pansy Paradox
“My thoughts exactly. Drink the whole pot.” Again, that tender look sears straight through me, as if Mort is searching for something he can’t find. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, then shuts it, shakes his head, and gives me a benevolent smile.
“I’ll let you rest,” is all he says.
The door shuts softly behind him. I pour a full cup of tea before crossing the room and engaging the lock. Out of some instinct—not to alert Mortimer, not to offend him—I do this as silently as possible and only when I’m certain he’s reached the first floor.
With a sigh, I sit on the bed. I should probably dig out the burner phone and reread Henry’s instructions for tonight. Tea first, I decide. I need to calm my heart and clear my head.
I know my mother’s recipe will do just that.
Chapter 56
Henry
King’s End, Minnesota
Friday, July 14
Would he be fast enough?
Mortimer Connolly’s footfalls shook the entire stairwell. The noise felt deliberate, a jab in Henry’s direction. Yes, why let the injured man rest?
He’d stashed the burner phone deep beneath his pillows. Even as he shut his eyes and feigned exhaustion, he could sense the phone’s presence beneath his skull, a guilty sort of feeling straight from an Edgar Allan Poe story.
Henry couldn’t risk a message while Mortimer Connolly was in Pansy’s room. Certainly, he couldn’t pull out the phone and start texting in front of Gwyneth. Or perhaps he could, tossing off a cavalier, “Just one of my many flirtations.”
That was unfair; Henry knew it. But his mood had soured, and playing the invalid hampered as much as it helped.
Like now, with Gwyneth in the room, fussing over him—stethoscope, penlight, and frown. After a decade in the field, Henry could adopt almost any persona. True, some were a bit beyond his grasp. Slipping into someone flippant was a stretch. But he could play possum with the best of them.
Gwyneth perched on the edge of the coffee table. “I’m worried, Henry. You’re not?—”
“Recovering fast enough after a near-fatal blow?”
Gwyneth exhaled, a half sigh, half laugh. “I know, I know. Seems odd, is all. You were fine earlier.”
“Bit of a relapse. Same thing happened in Cairo after you left.” It wasn’t a complete lie. Still, he was feeling better than he had a right to, all things considered.
“Any idea what hit you?”
“None.”
“Screamers generally don’t attack like that.”
No, not without an agenda, and clearly, they had one. “They were manifesting weather,” he said. “And then?” He raised a hand, palm up, and let his fingers tremble slightly before dropping his hand again. “Then anything can happen.”
“I just worry.”
“I know you do.”
To Gwyneth’s credit, she always had. If Henry had to give the feeling a name, he’d call it sisterly love. Why they simply couldn’t agree to that—and leave the betrothal behind—he couldn’t say. Or rather, he could, and it was all due to Enclave politics.
“You should get some rest,” he added. “It’s been a long day for you as well.”
“I was thinking”—she waved a hand at the office—“maybe Agent Little has a cot or something?”
“There’s enough spare bedrooms upstairs for both you and Agent Connolly to each have your own.”
“Perhaps you could join me?” True, the invitation was more soft than seductive, but a hint of the latter lingered in Gwyneth’s voice. Open mind, indeed.
