She laughed—a harsh grunt.
Georg had no need to drug her. He had a far easier method whereby to maintain control of her. She drank the tea in one long series of gulps. It wouldn’t do to get dehydrated.
It was kind of Georg to have brought her tea. He was trying. He was just such an idiot at times. What was all that about shielding and protecting her from a little rough living? She shook her head. She didn’t think she’d been in the habit of displaying an attitude of helplessness when they’d been kids together. In fact, she distinctly remembered being the one to comfort a frightened Georg—telling Georg stories about Sir Thunder and Sir Lightning, battling in the clouds when he’d lain in bed shivering with fear during the hurricane season.
Had Georg reconstructed the past in his mind, needing to see her as weak, somehow? That could explain the strange, protective behavior. The Georg she remembered had been scared of lots of things. Maybe he’d rewritten the past, in his own mind, to compensate.
She shook her head. What’s done is done, as Mutti used to say. A tiny thought tickled the back of her brain: if Georg hadn’t taken the past year away from her, she would have come through the worst of her grief over Skandor. She grasped her cup, possessed with the desire to smash it on the ground. The floor was concrete; the mug would shatter. How satisfying that would be. But it wouldn’t change things.
She set the cup back down.
There was no way around the fact that for her, Skandor’s death had just happened. Her chest felt as though an iron band was constricting around it. Without giving it a thought, she vanished into her invisible form, feeling instant relief from the physical sensations of grief. She needed to hold her grief at bay, at least for now.
Katrin’s refusal to take Georg’s “cure” had been strategic. She didn’t want Georg to know she’d already restored her ability back in San Francisco. Georg had kept her under his control for over a year. She knew he liked to control others, but she wouldn’t have believed he would have wished to control her. Somehow she felt sure he would be less likely to send her back to sleep if he thought she was stuck in solid form.
Besides, hiding her ability from Georg would give her the opportunity to watch him and find out what this mysterious “great work” of his was, exactly. She found it highly suspect that he hadn’t told her already, if it was really so … great.
Drifting forward, Katrin passed through the far wall, heading deeper into the compound to find out how, exactly, Georg spent his days on this remote Atlantic island.
19
FOOD YOU CAN’T EAT USING UTENSILS
Sam sat down at the school cafeteria lunch table that had been “hers” for the past two years. Well, technically, it had been hers and Will’s and Gwyn’s. At least Gwyn still sat here. It was a funny half-sized table wedged into the back corner of the cafeteria with only enough room for three chairs. Although, somehow during the semester Chrétien had been enrolled as a student, they’d managed to cram four people in, which had everything to do with Gwyn’s proclivity for close encounters of the Chrétien kind.
Sam’s usual seat was the one furthest in the corner. It offered the best view of her surroundings. Sitting where she could see well was an old habit. With her therapist’s help in fifth and sixth grade, Sam had discovered she felt more in control, and safer, if she could see what was coming at her. Too bad there wasn’t a chair you could claim if you wanted to see your boyfriend deciding to break up with you, because she hadn’t seen that one coming.
Sam gazed out the rain-splattered window. What was that saying about March? In like a lion, out like a lamb? Or was that for April? Will would know. Sam swallowed against the tightness in her throat. The tightness came as a sort of … relief. Lately, she had begun to feel some of the numbness she used to feel in the days that had followed her mother’s death.
“I’m starving,” groaned Gwyn, collapsing into the chair kitty-corner to Sam’s. “Let’s just say being married burns a ton of calories.”
Sam gave her best friend a sad half-smile.
“Oh, Sam.” Gwyn’s face collapsed into an expression Sam had been seeing a lot of lately. It was a poignant expression that waffled between tears and the need to spread good cheer. It was quintessentially Gwyn.
Sure enough, tears quivered on the edge of Gwyn’s lower lids, but then she gave her head a quick shake and whispered, “We have got to get your life figured out!”
“I’ll be fine, Gwyn.”
“No.” Gwyn shook her head exaggeratedly. “There is not one person in the entire state of California who would buy that. ‘Fine’ involves a healthy interest in chocolate chip cookies and Chrétien’s backside.” She frowned. “I take back that last one.”
Sam gave a small snort of laughter.
Gwyn’s eyebrows waggled. “I made you laugh. That’s progress.”
Sam wasn’t prepared to talk about Will in the school cafeteria. She had to turn the conversation. “Speaking of ‘progress,’ how are things going with your mom?” she asked Gwyn.
Gwyn withdrew a napkin from the table dispenser and set it elegantly over her lap. She took another napkin and used it to wipe a smudge of pepperoni grease from the edge of her paper-plated serving of pizza. As she began attacking her slice of pizza with fork and knife, she murmured an indifferent, “Fine.”
What a pair of liars we make, thought Sam.
Sam unwrapped her ham and brie on sourdough. Sylvia had drawn a row of three tiny hearts on the inside of the butcher paper. Contemplating her sandwich, which looked amazing like everything Sylvia prepared, Sam wished she had the appetite to enjoy it.
Gwyn stuffed a forkful of cafeteria pepperoni in her mouth, made a face, chewed and swallowed. “Ma and I spoke last Saturday. So, that was … progress.”
“You spoke?”
“Yes. An actual conversation. Ma and me. In the same room. Without breaking anything.”
“I heard about the broken window,” said Sam.
Gwyn rolled her eyes and changed the subject.
“So how about you and Will? Any … progress there?”
“Gwyn, I can’t talk about that here. Really.”
Gwyn frowned and then gave a tiny nod.
“The broken window was not my fault,” said Gwyn, returning the conversation to safer grounds.
“But you had an actual conversation with your mom?”
Gwyn toyed with a piece of pizza, pushing it back and forth on her plate. “Sadly, there was an astonishing lack of either motherly forgiveness or filial respect.”
Sam smiled and shook her head. “What did you and your mom talk about?”
Gwyn attacked her pizza with added vigor, taking two more bites before she would speak. “You know, if they’d let the cardboard rise before they baked it, the pizza would be a lot less objectionable.”
Neither of them wanted to talk about the things that mattered the most. Maybe it was contagious.
Gwyn sighed. “Our talk sucked, okay? She yelled at me for being irresponsible and I yelled at her that she was one to talk and she told me that she didn’t raise her daughter to lift her skirt at the first boy who fluttered his eyelashes at her and I asked what exactly did she expect, given the manner of my conception, and then we both stopped talking for awhile because the temperature in the room shot up to about a hundred and thirty degrees.”
“Oh, Gwyn … I’m so sorry.”
“Whatevs. After that, it got worse.”
“Worse?”
“Ma said she hoped I wasn’t expecting her to pay for med school now and I said I never wanted to go to freaking med school in the first place.”
“Wait, I thought you said you were considering it after all,” said Sam.
“Well, I was. Sort of. I was thinking I might take the neuro-biology track which you can make into pre-med with a few extra courses, but I wasn’t about to tell Ma that, was I? Not after she insulted the good name of my husband like that.”
Sam reached out a hand as Gwyn set down
her fork, having devoured the last of her pizza. She gave Gwyn’s hand a squeeze.
“You know your mom doesn’t disapprove of Chrétien, right?” asked Sam.
“Are you going to eat that?” asked Gwyn, pointing to Sam’s sandwich.
Sam pushed the sandwich to Gwyn’s side of the table. “Right?”
“Yeah,” said Gwyn, sighing. “I know. Until we got married, she flipping worshipped the ground he walked on.”
“She still loves him. I’m sure of it.” Sam smiled softly, catching Gwyn’s eye as she took an enormous bite of the sandwich. “And what’s even more important, she loves you, Gwyn.”
Gwyn ignored the second statement. “I have to say, I sure appreciate food you can’t eat using utensils.”
Sam laughed. “The fork and knife thing is a … Chrétien thing, I take it?”
Gwyn nodded, taking another huge bite of Sam’s sandwich. She set the sandwich down on the row of hearts. Then she picked the sandwich back up again without taking a bite. Sam could see the exact moment Gwyn realized Sylvia had drawn those hearts on the butcher paper.
Gwyn’s eyes filled again and she blinked several times, hard. “I just want … is it so much to ask …” She pointed to the row of hearts Sylvia had drawn. Tears spilled over her eyelids and she cursed. Then she cursed again for having allowed herself to utter profane language. “I would just like to know Ma cares, you know? Is that so hard for her to show? I just got married. Ma of all people should be happy for me.”
Sam smiled and took Gwyn’s hand again. “In an ideal world, moms are happy for their daughters when they make the decision to spend the rest of their life with the person they love. But, Gwyn, you’ve got to see it from your mom’s perspective. You cut her out completely. I mean, I don’t know about your mother, but in general, moms like to plan their daughters’ weddings.”
“I guess.”
“And she’s probably scared to death for you.”
“Scared?”
“That’s what Sylvia thinks. Syl says your mom had nine months of you getting bigger in her belly to decide whether or not to invite a man into both of your lives. And even though she really liked your father, Bridget never told him. That’s a crapload of scared right there.”
“And independent. A crapload of independent.”
“Yes.”
“And stubborn. A double crapload of stubborn.”
“True.” Sam paused for a moment before adding, “And your mom’s done the best she knows how, and you’ve turned out pretty good, and some of the credit for that goes to her, right?”
Gwyn nodded. Her chin quivered and another line of tears trailed down her face.
“So Sylvia thinks Ma is scared?”
Sam nodded. “Out of her ever-loving mind. Those were Syl’s exact words.”
“What’s she got to be scared about?”
“Oh, Gwynnie. She’s your mom. It’s her job to be scared. It’s what Moms do. She’s probably scared about you getting hurt, or about you being too young and immature to stay married, or—”
“Okay, okay. I get it,” said Gwyn. “Does Syl happen to have any advice in the how to reconcile with your mom department?”
“You won’t like it.”
“Probably not. But try me anyway.”
“Syl thinks you should apologize for leaving your mom out of this really big decision.”
“I wish everyone would stop calling it ‘a big decision.’ Honestly, I’ve agonized more over what color sandals I’m buying. Marrying Chrétien was probably the easiest decision I’ve ever made.”
“Well, it may have been easy, but it was also big. What color of sandals you’re buying is a small decision, as these things go. You can always get a different color next summer. Or when there’s a blow-out sale.”
“Yeah. I guess.” Gwyn pulled several napkins from the dispenser and blew her nose, wiped her eyes. “I guess. When you put it like that.”
“That’s how your mom sees it. Trust me. Or, trust Sylvia if you don’t trust me.”
Gwyn nodded. “Okay. I guess I could tell her I’m sorry I didn’t tell her about the wedding. I mean, if you and Sylvia think this is a risk worth taking.”
“Absolutely,” said Sam.
Gwyn looked up from her sandwich, a mischievous smile on her face. “Look at you, Miss I Don’t Believe in Taking Risks.”
Sam sucked in a breath. “That’s not fair.”
“Oh, it’s totally fair,” said Gwyn. Then she leaned in. “And it’s exactly what you need to be doing with regard to a certain Will Baker.”
Sam felt panic rising in her belly. She couldn’t talk to Will. She had to let that part of herself die, or it would kill her.
“Earth to Sam,” said Gwyn. “Hey—I’m sorry. Wherever you’re going right now, don’t go there. Think about something nice. Think about how happy it will make Sylvia to hear I’m going to apologize to Ma.” Gwyn ate the last bite of Sam’s sandwich. “I mean, I could really use a decent lunch from the bakery, you know?”
Sam nodded.
“Not even a smile?” asked Gwyn. “I thought that was pretty funny, myself.” She took Sam’s hand. “We need to talk about you, girlfriend. Seriously. Soon.”
“I’m going to be fine,” said Sam. It was a lie. An enormous lie. Like all of the lies and pretences that had kept the people she loved from worrying about her in the years following her mother’s death.
Because the truth was her heart lay frozen, like water turned to ice, and spring was nowhere in sight.
20
WANTED DIFFERENT THINGS
Will lifted the heavy iron knocker on the door and rapped it twice. It was still strange to think of this as Chrétien and Gwyn’s house instead of as Sir Walter’s. But then again, everything about the last month was strange.
Gwyn answered the door. “They’re waiting for you in the breakfast room,” she said. “And I’m off to have dinner with Ma, so, have fun.” She smiled and gave his shoulder a quick squeeze.
Gwyn seemed to vacillate between two responses to Will’s presence. Sometimes he swore he could cook an egg on the flaming darts of doom behind Gwyn’s short quips. Other times, he was sure he saw kindness in her eyes, maybe even pity. But she categorically refused to talk about Sam.
“That’s between you two,” she’d said, the last time he’d asked how Sam was doing. “I’m the Neutral Zone.” When Will had looked puzzled, she had added, “Star Trek, hello.”
That’s between you two.
Of course, the problem was there was … nothing between him and Sam now. It had been almost two weeks, and there had been no discussions, no accidental meetings in the halls at school. There should have been at least one or two accidental meetings. The only explanation was that Sam was full-on avoiding him.
He sighed and continued into Sir Walter’s—er, Chrétien’s—house, proceeding to the breakfast room.
Skandor was pacing back and forth in front of the large new window Sir Walter had installed last summer. Apparently the monks had been big on privacy. Or sensory deprivation. Will thought the window was a huge improvement. It had also been the talk of the town, as it was, apparently, crazy-expensive to install a window in a house constructed of rocks. And the house didn’t even belong to Sir Walter—it was one of Bridget Li’s rentals, although Will’s understanding was that she had refused to accept actual rent after Sir Walter’s rescue of Gwyn on two occasions.
Will wondered how Bridget was taking her daughter’s occupation of the rental. He shook his head. If Gwyn was off to eat dinner with her mom, things must be improving, at least. That, or Las Abs was about to get another serving of gossip fodder regarding the goings-on in the back room of the café.
“Will,” said Skandor. “Good to see you, man. So, Sir Walter says it’s definitely the island of Tenerife.”
Will nodded. “Yup. We checked a few other things and the video Raoul sent could only have been recorded in the Mercedes Forest on Tenerife.”
Sir
Walter entered the room bearing a tray of sandwiches. Chrétien followed with a tray of coffee.
“Bienvenue,” said Sir Walter. “Welcome, welcome. I thought a simple meal would be best as we lay plans.”
Skandor grabbed a sandwich and finished it in two bites. When Will saw Skandor, he always thought of a polar bear. He and Skandor were the same age, but Skandor towered over almost everyone. Which meant he was potentially valuable in ways Will couldn’t be: Skandor could rescue anyone, including Chrétien and Pfeffer. Will could only ripple to safety with the smaller members of their circle. He could probably ripple away with Georg or with Katrin, but he didn’t really know. He should work on increasing his body mass. He grabbed several sandwiches.
“How soon can we leave?” asked Skandor. “Today’s Tuesday. I can be ready by tomorrow morning.”
Will laughed. Chrétien smiled politely. Sir Walter looked amused.
“These things take time,” said Sir Walter. “We have the advantage of surprise. Our enemy does not expect us. But it is still best to be as thoroughly prepared as possible.”
Will watched as Skandor seemed to deflate.
“I see,” said Skandor. “So, how long are we talking to get … prepared?” He made air quotes around the word prepared.
“I should think four days would be sufficient. I have asked Pfeffer to run down a few things for us already, hence his absence from our assembly.”
Skandor nodded.
“Has anyone contacted Martina?” asked Will. “Shouldn’t she be told if we’re about to get Katrin out of Georg’s clutches?”
“Yes,” agreed Sir Walter. “I am sorry to say I had not thought of that.”
Will nodded. It was easy to forget about people when they weren’t around. Well, unless they were Samantha Ruiz, in which case they were damned hard to forget.
“So, add that to the list,” said Skandor. “Good, good. What else?”
Chrétien was listing things, while Skandor nodded enthusiastically. Will was sidetracked, thinking the timetable Sir Walter had proposed. In four days, Spring Break was starting. Mick wouldn’t like the direction his thoughts were taking. Time was, Sam wouldn’t have liked it either. But if they were going in four days time, there was no reason for Will to stay in town, was there? Not that he wouldn’t have dropped school in a heartbeat if this had been an emergency rescue. If it had been Sam or Pfeffer or Gwyn or Mick in danger—well, Will would’ve been gone yesterday.
Perilous: A Ripple Novel (Ripple Series Book 7) Page 9
