Chapter 16
Arthur
The self-service restaurant on the ferry was half full.
Three hours ago, the rain had started coming down harder, and I’d finally convinced Gwen to walk back to the car.
She’d opted not to change into dry clothes and shivered through the first fifteen minutes of our drive to Plymouth.
Afterward, she’d napped until we arrived at the ferry station.
Through the window, the English coast faded in the blur of the rain. Families with children filled most of the tables, but there were a few couples with wine, and a group of eight older men wearing matching shirts who must have been part of a club. The sword case sat on the bench beside me.
Gwen ordered the fish. I ordered the fish, too. If Lance had been here, he would have pointed that out. But Lance wasn’t here. Which was part of the problem, and I needed to stop thinking about it. Either way, I changed my mind and asked for the chicken.
Gwen ate without talking. I’d had plenty of clients who refused to talk to me after I’d enforced security rules. But that was about shutting me out. This was about shutting herself down.
“How’s the fish?” I asked.
“It’s fine.”
“What about the sauce?”
She dragged her fork through it. “I think it’s supposed to be tartar.”
“Supposed to be?”
“It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever eaten.”
Half of me expected a laugh. As though maybe she’d intentionally echoed my line about the Chalice Well water, but the moment flew by in more silence.
I’d been turning Glastonbury over since we left. The research had been fruitful, and from Gwen’s excitement, she’d found details that would help her put her puzzle together. But Fergus’s sister had walked in, and five minutes later Gwen was out the door, walking in the rain.
A pretty smile and a low-cut shirt.
‘Excuse me?’ was all I’d managed. Two words, then nothing, because Gwen was already closing her notebook and heading for the door. If I’d said anything more, I’d have been speaking for her, and that wasn’t how I operated.
My father still spoke for my mother every fucking time I saw them.
But maybe, sometimes, it was justified. In Hopkins’s office, I’d stood by the door and watched her cave. At the shop, I’d barely opened my mouth before she’d headed for the door. I was 0-for-2, and it was getting to me.
You should have stood up for her.
“Fergus emailed me more documents while we were driving.” Gwen pushed a piece of fish around her plate. “More parish records referencing the boundary marker and photos of the pages we were discussing before…”
Before she’d folded one more time, and her light had dimmed even further.
“Anything useful?” I asked.
“I’m not sure yet. I need to sit down with them properly.”
The conversation died. Again.
I cut into my chicken, almost uncomfortable eating when she didn’t seem able to. Behind us, one of the children shrieked, and a mother’s voice rose in rapid French.
Gwen poked at her fish. “I bet Hettie made better fish than this.”
Despite it all—the silence, the rain, the fish that was probably far tastier than her mood would allow her to admit—my chest warmed.
“Hettie’s tartar sauce would have rescued it.
She made it from scratch with capers, fresh dill, and tiny gherkins she grew and pickled herself.
That woman went so far as to hand-make her own mayo. ”
“She sounds like someone I’d want cooking for me.”
“She would have barged into the kitchen and convinced them to let her cook for us.” I leaned back against the bench, picturing the little woman with the big personality.
“She used to say bad food was a character flaw. Not in the person eating it—in the person who made it. Cooking for someone was an act of respect, and if you couldn’t be bothered to do it right, you were showing them exactly how much they mattered. ”
Gwen set her fork down. “Is that why you cook for people?”
“I don’t—” Don’t what, Penn? I stress-cooked. I didn’t cook for people.
“The pasta at the cottage was delicious.” She paused. “The waffles were some of the best I’ve ever had. Even the soup and sandwiches were… I don’t know, different?”
“It’s just cooking.”
“You put a lot of love into your cooking, Arthur.”
Her words settled deep in my chest, right alongside the memories of Hettie. Instead of trying to figure out what any of it meant, I asked, “Do you want dessert?”
“I’m kind of full.” She’d barely eaten half her meal. Her brain might have thought it was done eating, but her body needed more.
“I’ll grab some for the room.”
We disposed of our dishes and walked to the café counter. She stood beside me, scanning the display case. She didn’t pick anything, but her gaze lingered on a slice of chocolate cake and a custard pastry. I grabbed those, a fruit tart, and a lemon square.
“That’s a lot of dessert,” she said.
“Galahad’s girlfriend has this saying: ‘Life’s too short.’”
Gwen furrowed her brow. “Too short for what?”
“Everything, apparently.” I set the plates on a tray with two forks and two bottles of water. “At least, everything we deny ourselves.”
Gwen smiled. “Wise woman.”
After I paid, Gwen took the sword case from me, while I carried the food to our cabin.
The room was just as we’d left it after we came up from parking the car down below—our bags rested by the bunk on the left that acted as a couch, the two bunks on the right were folded down with their thin white sheets pulled tight, and a table with two chairs sat in the middle of the room.
It was a small cabin, but large enough we could walk around without bumping into each other.
I’d momentarily considered driving to London and taking the train to Paris, rather than the overnight ferry from Plymouth, but the ferry had a few advantages.
We were able to keep the car, we didn’t risk security demanding we stow the sword somewhere outside our room, and we’d each have our own space.
Although we’d be sleeping in the same room. I could have bought two cabins, but I had to be close to protect her and the sword.
Lance would have commented on that, too.
Once we were inside, Gwen dropped into one of the chairs at the round table and opened her laptop. She was working before I’d taken my shoes off.
I put the desserts in the mini fridge near the door and stretched out on the couch. The engine vibrated through the frame. I’d always slept well on ships—the gentle rumble and constant motion put my body under deeper than solid ground ever had.
That was another reason I’d selected the ferry over the train. I needed some real sleep.
I pulled out my phone to check my email. Four messages from Merlin, including an update on the now-stable Buchanan account. Another from Caine-Ferraro confirming the next phase of the authentication schedule. An industry newsletter. Three promotions I deleted without reading.
Gwen tapped incessantly as she did whatever she was doing on her laptop.
“Do you mind if I turn on the television?” I pointed to the small screen above the mini fridge. “It’s too quiet in here.”
She didn’t glance up. “Go ahead.”
I found the remote and flipped through channels, passing a French news broadcast, a soccer recap, and a cooking competition. I settled on a nature documentary about the North Atlantic and turned the volume down for background noise.
My phone buzzed. Lance.
I stood and paced toward the door as I answered. “Hey. Where are you?”
“Hotel near the archive. It’s gorgeous here—which you’d know if you hadn’t sent me to do the boring job.” He sounded rested, which meant he’d slept on the flight. “Where are you two?”
“On the ferry. About an hour out of Plymouth.”
“The train would have been faster.”
“I didn’t want to get a new car. Did you talk to Morganna?”
“Yep.” He wasn’t outwardly hostile, but he was clearly pissed at my decision to split us up.
“And?”
“She’s making progress on the journalist but won’t commit to a timeline. Said she’s peeling back layers and it’s slow going. I told her slow wasn’t good enough, and she told me to—well, you can imagine what Morganna told me.”
Likely, she’d warned him she’d hack into his bank account and spend all of his money. None of us were sure she was capable of that, but she liked to threaten it.
“She also said she’d have details by the end of the week. Whether she means a name or another excuse, I have no idea.”
“I may need to visit her in person and convince her to come on full time. This is getting ridiculous.”
“You do. Now give the phone to Gwen. I want to talk to her.”
I walked toward her. “Lance wants to talk to you.”
When she nodded, I tapped the speaker button, and she said, “Hi, Lance.”
“How was Glastonbury?” he asked.
She closed her laptop partway, and I put the phone on the table next to her. “Fergus gave me some helpful information, like a report from 1802 that describes lettering in the tower before the Victorian restoration.”
“So it’s not Victorian?”
“It might not be.” She continued filling him in on the details. She was more animated talking to him than she’d been the rest of the day. Her hands moved when she described Fergus’s documents. She leaned forward. She actually smiled while she spoke about the photos she was reviewing.
She made no mention of Fergus’s sister or the comments about her neckline. Nothing about leaving before she was done or walking in the rain.
“Sounds like progress,” Lance said. “Arthur, anything on your end?”
“Nothing. I’ll check in when we dock.”
“Get some sleep. Both of you.” He hung up.
On the television, a pod of dolphins broke the surface in slow motion.
Gwen opened her laptop fully. The energy from the call was draining out of her, her shoulders settling into the same posture she’d carried since Glastonbury.
She’d lit up for Lance like she lit up for the sword, the church tower, and the inscription.
For the things that excited her mind. Then something would come along and switch the light off, and she’d sit like this—staring at a screen she wasn’t truly seeing.
I pulled the tray of desserts from the fridge, set it on the table with two forks, and took my lemon square to the couch.
Gwen closed her laptop and picked up a fork.
She took a bite of the chocolate cake and closed her eyes.
For a few seconds, whatever had sent her out into the rain wasn’t in the room with us.
It was like feeding her bakery-fresh bread dipped in garlic oil.
Her chest swelled, and she let out a little sigh that I felt low in my belly.
“Good?”
“Surprisingly good.”
“What about Fergus’s email?” I broke off a piece of the lemon square with my fork. “If that’s what you’re reading?”
“He has better source material than half the published academics in the field,” Gwen said. “And he’s running a gift shop in Glastonbury.”
“With replica swords.”
“That he openly admits aren’t real.” She pointed her fork at me. “He’s got more intellectual honesty than some tenured professors I could name.”
I took my last bite and turned sideways on the sofa, staring up at the dolphins on the screen. “Maybe he chose his life. Maybe it suits him.”
“Or he’s writing in his blog because he wants more and that’s his only option.”
“More isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be.” More square footage. More horsepower. More staff. More prestige. That’s what men were built for, right, Dad?
“Coming from a man who has more of everything?”
I turned from the dolphins to look at her. For a second, I took her question for contempt or judgment, but the lift of her brows said it was simple curiosity. “You remember my father owns Pendragon Security? It was in… the article?”
“I remember.”
“When I left the Teams, I went to work for him. I wanted to be a number. I wanted to be one more faceless operator, not the owner’s son. I wanted to learn the family business from the inside. But my father had different plans.”
She took another bite of her cake, but didn’t say anything.
“In 2019, the CIA contracted with Pendragon for what they called Task Force Legacy.” I turned toward the television, which showed walruses sunning themselves on a huge rock.
“Two CIA contacts, plus a group of Pendragon contractors. Our mission was to protect archaeologists and dig sites in Afghanistan.”
It was important work, and I’d been proud to be part of it.
“However, my father put me in charge of the Pendragon contingent, despite a few other men having more experience than me.” Two of them hadn’t been afraid to voice their displeasure.
“And that was the ‘more’ you didn’t want?”
“One of them.” I’d wanted to earn their respect, not be pandered to because of my last name. I’d called home to protest the assignment, but all he’d said was, ‘You’re a Penn. Act like it.’
My entire fucking life in two sentences.
“You know, Arthur…” Gwen put down her fork.
“We met less than a week ago, but I’ve heard enough conversations between you and your team to know you deserve the role you’re in.
Lance obviously trusts you, but disagrees with you because he’s your friend.
And your analyst briefs you like he’s reporting to someone whose judgment matters. ”
My throat tightened. I glanced at her, then back at the television. Those were the sorts of things my mother pointed out when I complained about my father’s nepotism.
“Speaking of judgment…” I shook off my pity party and turned to face her. “What Bridget said to you in the shop wasn’t just rude.”
Gwen went still, her eyes opening slightly.
Retreat, Penn. Retreat! But I couldn’t. I had to say it instead of letting another hour go by. “You weren’t finished, but she was awful to you, and you left because of it. I wanted to step in—”
“Arthur, don’t.”
“I’m not asking you to explain.” Except I was, wasn’t I? What was I trying to accomplish? Maybe I needed her to confess so I didn’t feel too stupid for telling her about my father?
Gwen looked at the table, not at me, and the documentary narrator talked about ocean currents. “There was a man. Before. And he…”
I was sitting forward, leaning toward her. When had I done that?
“I can’t.” She stood and gestured at the bathroom near the door. “I should get ready for bed.”
But before she put any real distance between us, I shifted to the edge of the couch and grabbed her wrist.
Not hard. Not planned.
My fingers closed around it, and she stopped with her back to me. I held on.
She didn’t pull away. She didn’t look at me.
Let go of her. She’s a client.
I couldn’t make myself open my hand. Every time I thought something was passing between us—like some fraction of magic was sparking—she shut down. Of course she did, because she knew the truth, too: Emotional connections are dangerous.
“I can’t,” she repeated, quieter this time. She slid her arm out from my grip and picked up her bag, disappearing into the bathroom.