The Gender Game 5: The Gender Fall(92)

Ms. Dale nodded, dropping into a chair next to mine, her lips pursed. “He came to me early this morning.”

I checked my watch—it was barely after eleven in the morning—and then looked back down at the papers I had been perusing before she came in. The words on them seemed to blur together; I couldn’t remember what they had meant.

“I don’t understand,” I said, looking back up at her. “Why would he just leave us? I mean… he didn’t even say goodbye.”

Ms. Dale gave me a sympathetic look and reached over, patting my hand. “I think saying goodbye would have been a bit too much for him, Violet. He’s hurting. Badly.”

“Is this because of Viggo?”

Ms. Dale sighed and leaned back into her chair. “Probably,” she admitted with a small shake of her head. My face must’ve reflected the sudden stab of irritation I felt, because she leaned forward again, catching my gaze in hers. “You have to give them a little latitude, Violet. They’re both blaming Viggo.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” I replied hoarsely. “How many ways have we tried to convince them of that?”

“Violet, we all know that. I think even Owen knows that. But logic doesn’t hold a candle to what they are both feeling. Honestly, I think this might be for the best. Owen needs some distance from all this, and I think getting him out of the center of action will give him some time to heal.”

I exhaled and considered her words. “Where would he even go?”

Ms. Dale’s smile was genuine. “Don’t worry. I didn’t let him stray too far. I put him in charge of guarding King Maxen and watching over Solomon.”

I shook my head, feeling a rueful smile playing on my lips. “I mean, Solomon is one thing. I wouldn’t mind being able to check in on him myself. But King Maxen?” I made a face. “Yech.”

Ms. Dale chuckled, her eyes dancing. “Tell me about it. The guards I have assigned to him hate the detail. He’s more than a little bit of a handful.”

“No kidding,” I replied. “I do not envy their job.” I picked up the sheaf of papers I had been holding before Ms. Dale had come in, and then set them down again with a sigh, realizing I still couldn’t focus. “I just hate the idea of Owen trying to go through this alone,” I admitted quietly.

“It’s his choice,” she said. “But, for the record, I don’t like it either. I hope he’ll come back to us soon.”

“I mean, I just don’t understand men! Why are they so damn stubborn?”

Ms. Dale’s laughter filled the room, and she shook her head, combing her fingers back through her hair. “Honestly, I have no idea. If I did, I might hold the secret to winning this war.”

I grinned, meeting her eyes as I leaned forward on the table. “Does that mean Henrik is getting better, and you’re having… problems?”

Ms. Dale regarded me with a flat stare. “I believe that is none of your business, Ms. Bates,” she said, arching an eyebrow.

“Interesting you should say that,” I replied, smirking. “Because I get the feeling your days of teasing Viggo and me are numbered.”

Snorting, Ms. Dale stood up, tugging at the hem of her shirt. “Absurd,” she said tartly. “You and Mr. Croft simply flirt too much, especially in the most impractical and dangerous of situations.”

I laughed, our little mock fight helping to distract me from the ache of Owen’s departure. It was a silly thing, but if I had learned anything over the last few months, it was that humor was one of the only effective coping mechanisms.

Ms. Dale smiled warmly, and then nodded toward the papers under my hand. “What’s the verdict on the identification papers?”

“Oh.” I looked down at the papers, smoothing my hand over them. The woman we’d sent to get her city identification had come back yesterday and given us her full report, as well as the papers themselves. She hadn’t really seemed like the type to cry on command, but I guessed she must have been—whatever act she’d pulled off was what had gotten her back here safely. “Well, when Stacey brought them back and described the part of the process she’d seen, we were certain we could duplicate them, but now we’re not sure.”

“Really? Why? What’s the holdup?”

“It’s the ink,” said Thomas from where he was sitting at the end of the table. I blinked, mortified that I had completely forgotten he was in the room. He had been so quiet since Ms. Dale’s entrance. I hadn’t even checked to see how he was doing with the news of Owen leaving us. “At first it appeared to be simple, natural ink, but actually, there’s coding printed almost microscopically in each line, especially in the crest and the borders.”