Elgar takes another swallow of water, then a deep breath, and reapplies his performing-monkey smile. A quick glance at Forsyth and Lucy shows that they are as confused and on edge as he is.
“Sure, Adrienne,” Elgar says, and answers. And answers. And answers.
Elgar talks for two hours, his ears pricked, eyes straining, mouth dry with anticipation, his heart thudding against his ribs the whole time.
And nothing happens.
Chapter 11 Forsyth
As soon as the moderator has thanked the crowd for coming, and the lights have come on to signal the audience to trickle out through the large double doors at the back of the ballroom, Ahbni pokes her head out of the small, curtained-off area beside the stage and gestures for Pip and I to come in.
Pip and I rise with the rest of the crowd, hands still laced together, prepared to draw our blades if need be. We share a look of a confused anger, and I know that I am grinding my teeth in my frustration, a disgusting habit. I take a deep breath and shake out my shoulders, which startles Pip.
“Where is he?” my wife asks.
But I have no answer to give her. Instead, I tug her hand gently, hopefully reassuring, and we follow after Ahbni. Elgar stands in the middle of the overcrowded curtained-off area, bumping the computer banks behind him as Kashif removes his microphone. Elgar’s eyes are wide, his face sheened with sweat, and he is scrumpling the cuffs of his cardigan.
“That went well,” Ahbni says conversationally, tapping away at her smartphone. Pip snorts, and I resist the urge to growl. “Good crowd?”
“Uh, yeah,” Elgar murmurs, subdued. His tone makes Ahbni’s eyes snap up to him.
“Hey, you okay? You hungry, or . . . ?”
“I could . . . coffee?” Elgar asks, clearly remembering her annoyance at the request last night.
Ahbni just nods and says, “We’ll get you set up in the con suite upstairs for a bit, okay? There’s a few hours until your signing session.”
“Sounds great.” Elgar raises his eyebrows meaningfully at me. “It’s all going so smoothly.”
As ever, my creator thinks he is more subtle than he really is. Ahbni shoots me a confused look of her own at his theatrical emphasis, and I shake my head minutely, dismissing it. She doesn’t seem placated, but at this point, I frankly do not care.
The beginnings of fury itch the underside of my skin. And beyond that, the place in the back of my mind, the place where the puzzle pieces usually float, is a throbbing agony. Elgar Reed Wrote me to need to understand. And right now, I do not. And I despise it.
“Okay,” Pip says, attempting to hasten us along. “Someone’s feeling a bit hangry. Let’s go.”
“I am not—”
Pip kicks my shin, and I gape at her.
Fuming, though now my ire is directed at Pip’s audacity, I let her pull me along in her wake, through the back hallways again, to the Green Room, then out to the escalators. A few steps above us, Elgar turns to me and blurts: “You said he’d—” Pip kicks his shin, too. Affronted, and agitated, Elgar snaps his mouth shut and glowers.
Once in the con suite, I push both of them into the spare bedroom with a quick, “Excuse us for a moment,” and lock the door behind us.
“Your coffee . . . ?” Ahbni starts.
“In a moment!” I snap back through the door.
Pip tugs me hard through our joined hands and grinds out: “Quit it.”
“I don’t get it,” Elgar starts again. “You said that he’d—”
“There was always a chance—” I begin, but Elgar barrels over me with:
“If he wasn’t there, then where the hell is he? Can’t you feel him, Lucy? Where is he?”
“I’m not a magic compass! How do you expect me to—?” Pip protests.
“Enough,” I snarl, and both Pip and Elgar turn mulish expressions toward me. “We cannot change what happened, and we cannot force the Viceroy to show his hand, clearly.”
“So what now?” Elgar asks.
“Now, we fetch coffee, and eat something to cure our hangriness,” I say. Pip rolls her eyes at my childish tone, but I will not lie, I am feeling very close to an Alis-style tantrum. I would very much like to scream and break something, but of course, I will not. It would only cause more problems I do not need, and solve none of the ones I already have. “And then we sit down and figure this out.”
“You can’t just think through every problem,” Elgar says.
“It is what I do!” I reply. “I am no Kintyre Turn, to bash at things he cannot see! Though I wish he was here. Maybe that would draw out—”
“Forsyth, hey now,” Pip begins, but Elgar interrupts with: “If we keep waiting, then—”
“There is no foe before me to slay,” I counter. “So what else do you suggest I do?”
“Okay, let’s all just . . .” Pip takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Let’s all just chill for a second and stop sniping at each other, okay?”
“But what if—?” Elgar protests.
“Deep breath!” Pip interrupts, pointing at his face. He obeys, albeit grudgingly, and she swings her finger toward me. “You, too.” I obey, as well.
Once we’ve all taken a moment to breathe and chill, Pip lifts our twined hands between us with a question in her face. I nod. Slowly, finger by finger, we release one another. My joints ache, and my skin is damp with sweat when we finally let go. Elgar gasps and straightens, as if someone has dropped snow down the back of his shirt. I wipe my hand dry on my shirtsleeve as best I can.
Elgar sits in a chair beside this room’s desk, slumped over and morose now that our mutual impotent anger has dissipated and the tension in the room has been dispersed. He takes another deep breath, and holds on to it for a moment, clearly chewing on his thoughts. Finally,
