Page 91 of The Pansy Paradox
The grass is soft beneath my sneakers, the air heavy and sweet. Pink and gold streak the sky. My pulse thrums with anticipation when I press my hand against my belly. I strain my ears, cast my gaze over the benign oaks and graying headstones. We’ve reached the older part of the cemetery, where rain and snow and wind have worn away the names, the dates, and the history of those buried here.
Henry holds up a hand, halts, then turns around. His grin is full-on mischievous as he readies the camera on his phone.
“Well, Agent Little?”
Well, what? The earth beneath my feet shudders, the slightest tingling reaching my toes. My umbrella, too, picks up the disturbance and trembles against my back. I’m standing on top of the world’s smallest fissure.
“Oh!” I say, and kneel down.
Henry aims the camera’s lens at me. “Without assistance, Agent Little detected the presence of a hairline fissure in this part of the cemetery.”
I’m about to protest that I did no such thing until I was standing right on top of it, but he’s off and running, intoning like a narrator for a nature documentary.
“I believe this makes her uniquely suited to be the permanent post agent for King’s End. I was unable to locate the fissure myself without aid. Furthermore, her skills at repair?—”
I take this as my cue to start mending the fissure. Honestly, it’s such a tiny thing. Hardly worth noting, right up until it starts spewing Screamers, that is. Now that I’m here, I might as well mend it.
“—are second to none. She has a deft hand that, again, is suited to King’s End. I’m enormously pleased with her progress. In a few years, I can envision Agent Little mentoring other permanent post agents.”
That sounds like a backhanded compliment. I keep my gaze on the ground, my fingers in the soil, and use every ounce of willpower not to roll my eyes. Henry is schoolmastering but hard. Really, could the man be any more pretentious?
“I’ve taken the liberty of copying the High Council on my findings in King’s End as well. I know several members have a vested interest in how Rose Little and her daughter are faring.”
I nearly lose the thread of that fissure, but I keep the connection, keep mending, the grass scratchy and cool against my fingers. Dampness from the earth is working its way through the knees of my jeans. Despite the morning sun against my neck, I shiver.
“I’ll send another update tomorrow.” Henry stops the camera, uploads the video, and then shuts off his phone. He’s still grinning like a little boy in the midst of an enormously clever prank.
“Are you sure you’re not overselling it?” I ask.
“Not in the least.”
“And those other members of the High Council?”
“Insurance. I have a good sense of who my father’s allies were. I suspect they may have also been your mother’s.”
Enclave politics. I make a face; I know I must, because Henry bursts out laughing.
“A necessary evil, I agree.” He crouches next to the fissure and places his hands on the earth. “Well done. You know, your skills really are suited for King’s End. But elsewhere is available, if you so choose.”
There’s that offer again, of becoming a full-fledged field agent. Assuming, of course, the Enclave doesn’t override Henry and retire the Little line. “You know,” I say, because I can’t help myself, “I didn’t actually detect the fissure until I was standing right on top of it.”
“And I didn’t detect it without the app.”
“Wait. There’s an app?”
“Which you don’t need.” He gives me one of those sexy winks. This, combined with the boyish grin, nearly unravels me. Again, who is this man? There are so many layers to him: stern schoolmaster, field agent extraordinaire, stealth flirt in an impeccably tailored suit. Then there’s this man across from me now, giving me his full attention.
And then, suddenly, not. It’s caught by something beyond my shoulder, his gaze curious but cautious.
“No, it couldn’t be,” he mutters. But he stands and weaves among the headstones.
I have no choice.
I follow him.
“The funeral,” he says over his shoulder.
I glance around, but we’re in the wrong part of the cemetery for one. These are the legacy graves, names and memories washed away by time and rain and neglect.
