Discord's Apple

“Let’s see. Russia and India have declared war on China.”

“God, that was fast,” she said.

“Don’t tell me you saw it coming.”

“No, but I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Russia’s claiming the Chinese government backed the Mongolians who dropped the plane on Red Square. I think it’s just an excuse, but never mind. Congress is debating about who to side with. The U.S. has got aid treaties with all of them still on the books. That’s what we get for making friends with everyone, eh? We can’t side with the terrorists, but we can’t side against our largest trade market, can we? It’s a mess.”

She didn’t say anything, and for a moment he wondered if they were still connected.

“Evie?”

“Hm?”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m just tired.”

He didn’t buy it, but let it slide. “How are we going to spin this in the story?”

“Until we know who the President and Congress are going to back, we won’t know. Maybe we should get the Eagle Eyes out of Siberia and send them to . . . Peru or someplace. Are there any wars in Peru right now?”

“The way things have been going lately, it’s probably sunk into the ocean.” She laughed, which encouraged him to broach the difficult question. “How’s your dad?”

A beat passed before she said, “You know he got a dog? This huge Irish wolfhound. She’s great—I’ll have to send you pictures.”

The misdirection meant the situation there was bad. As terrible as it was being stranded in a security lockdown across town from Callie, he wouldn’t want to trade places with Evie.

“That’d be cool,” he said, not really interested in the dog but wanting to be supportive. “I should get going. We’ve got work to do, right?”

“Right.”

Work always gave them something to hide behind.

They signed off, and Bruce didn’t feel any better after the conversation than he had before it. It seemed like all their lives were blowing up at the same time.

The sunset’s orange faded to brown.

The woman shed her coat and pulled off her gloves, tossing them over the back of the desk chair in the matchbox that passed for a hotel room in this village. The carpet was brown, worn; the bedspread a garish paisley in shades of red and orange; the cheap paneling was coming off the walls. The place smelled of mice. So unsuitable. In her own mind, she was still the Queen, though she hadn’t worn a crown in centuries. The day would come again, and she had suffered far worse conditions than this over the years. She had spent the last three thousand years crawling out of ruin.

There was a closet near the bathroom. She knocked sharply on the closed door, three distinct raps. In response, the door slid open, pulled from the inside, and a few wisps of fog trailed from darkness. The young man who stepped out of the passage looked eighteen or nineteen, lithe and fine-boned, with tanned skin and curly brown hair. His hazel eyes flashed; his movements were quick and precise. He closed the door, then set about buttoning the cuffs of his white silk shirt.

“Finally,” he said. “I was so bored.”

“Then I’ll give you work,” the Queen said.

He looked up from his shirt cuffs to meet her gaze at last. His smile was crooked, disguising who-knew-what mischief. He made an ostentatious bow. “It is my fate to serve the powerful.”

“As if you had no power of your own. I know differently. You’re only bitter that the stories have reduced you to a friendly, harmless spirit.” She pinched his chin lightly.

He grinned all the wider. “Not so bitter as I would be if the stories had reduced me to a frigid old harridan.”

He was too much to bear by half. She turned away and spoke easily, as if she had not heard him. “The Marquis was correct. The trail he’s been following ends here. There are only two of them, father and daughter. But I can’t get inside to get at the Storeroom. Can you find a way into the house?”

“Simple. A task for children. I’ll be there and back before you know I’ve gone.”

“Not likely,” she said with a purr.