Persuasion (The Wild and Wanton Edition) (44 page)

Mrs. Smith’s enjoyments were not spoiled by this improvement of income, with some improvement of health, and the acquisition of such friends to be often with, for her cheerfulness and mental alacrity did not fail her; and while these prime supplies of good remained, she might have bid defiance even to greater accessions of worldly prosperity. She might have been absolutely rich and perfectly healthy, and yet be happy. Her spring of felicity was in the glow of her spirits, as her friend Anne’s was in the warmth of her heart. Anne was tenderness itself, and she had the full worth of it in Captain Wentworth’s affection. She went with him wherever he went, on land and on sea. His profession was all that could ever make her friends wish that tenderness less, the dread of a future war all that could dim her sunshine, but she loved the water, and she loved travelling it with Frederick. As he came up behind her while she watched the setting sun from the deck of the ship, he wrapt his arms around her and splayed his hands across the swell of her belly that housed their growing child. He pressed a kiss to her neck, and Anne turned her face from the warmth of the sun to bask in the warmth of his love. She gloried in being a sailor’s wife, but she must pay the tax of quick alarm for belonging to that profession which is, if possible, more distinguished in its domestic virtues than in its national importance.

Dr. Grace Tucker pulled herself deeper into the corner and tucked her arms tighter around her unshapely belly. As her hands and arms touched her large middle, it repulsed her nearly as much as it seemed to repulse the opposite sex. No, there was no disappearing a plus-sized woman, but her sloppy appearance got most people to look away quickly, which was as close as Grace was ever going to get to being blessedly invisible.

And, not for the first time, she desperately wished to be invisible.

Grace huddled in the main room of the top-secret government facility where the Trees stood. As always, she ignored them. She was never awed by the ancient trees. She’d taken one cursory glance at their branches that most described as majestic. Their fruit — covered in glittering diamonds for the Tree of Eternal Life, swirling black and white for the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil — was interesting only in that it loosely related to her work. She didn’t stand there and stare at them for hours as she was told was the expected behavior for new employees.

And yet right now, Grace wasn’t the only one ignoring the Trees. The somber mood in the facility was nearly suffocating. Not one of the dozens of employees had spoken in hours. They moped from room to room, desk to desk, casting great, wide-eyed glances upon everyone they crossed. But that wasn’t the reason Grace retreated to the corner.

They were
touching
one another.

Any person they came into reaching distance with. A hand on the shoulder. A hug. A squeeze of the arm or lingering pat on the back.

It was only a matter of time before one of them tried to touch
her
. And that simply was not going to work. End of story.

And, so, she was in the closest thing to a corner the domed room provided.

A young soldier in army fatigues walked by, and Grace went rigid, holding her breath until he passed.

He didn’t once glance in her direction. Grace’s breath flew from her frozen lungs even as her heart seized at the casual snub. She hugged herself tighter as she cursed her weak emotions. Without fail, every time her carefully cultivated armor of acerbic wit and slovenly appearance actually worked as she’d meant it to by keeping others away, her irrational side would come up bruised, as though it didn’t know perfectly well the reasons human contact was not in Grace’s cards.

She sighed almost silently, and forced herself to look cheerfully upon the fact that standing in the corner was working. She would make it through this. She
would
. It wouldn’t be like all of the other times. There would be no scene. No gut-wrenching screams shooting from her body without her control. No hysterical sobs. No sedation. No awkward return to work. No inevitable summons to the boss. No starting over with the knowledge that this was her life — on repeat.

She closed her eyes. The sad truth was, this
was
her life. And right now, she was huddled in the corner, praying to be invisible, worrying with all of her strength that someone would touch her.

But her friend’s impending death? Not even a blip on her emotional radar. Jericho Edwards was dying, and Grace was worried about herself.

Jericho was everyone’s favorite, but for a reason Grace couldn’t explain, he was
her
favorite as well. It had been thirteen long years since Grace considered a man as anything other than something to be avoided at all costs. Thirteen years since Grace had carefully erected a wall around her heart. And yet, somehow, Jericho found his way around that wall the tiniest bit.

It might have been the very obvious fact that Jericho would never, ever pose a threat to her. She’d known two seconds after being introduced to him that he was head over heels in love with someone: his Impulse mate, Dahlia. Jericho was nice to
everyone
, men and women alike. In fact, Grace had never met anyone so good.

And he’d taken one look at her — her frumpy clothes, excess body weight, bird’s nest of red hair, black-rimmed glasses, and man-hating glare — and deemed her a friend, working tirelessly at cultivating a relationship with her when everyone else just avoided her.

And now, he was dying. Worse, his survival depended upon
Grace
and Grace’s work.

Three months and a week or so ago, Jericho cut his finger on the sword — the artifact that Grace was commissioned to work on. It was a flesh wound that should have healed in seconds given that Jericho, Dahlia, Eli, and Abilene were all immortal after eating the fruit from the Tree of Eternal Life. But the simple wound hadn’t healed. And things came to a head a few days ago when Jericho returned to the facility with his brand new wife, Dahlia. In the process of moving, Jericho managed to rip the tiny, unhealed wound wide open from the tip of his finger into his palm. It had been bleeding profusely ever since, and his body couldn’t keep up.

And suddenly, Dr. Grace Tucker was very much in demand. She couldn’t count the number of times she had to remind them “I’m not that kind of doctor.” Their situation was so unique that her PhD in dead languages made her much more qualified to help Jericho than an MD would on its best day, but her work took more time than medication or surgery ever would.

She’d made her breakthrough this morning.

The ancient, dead language on the sword said
What the Tree gives, the Sword takes. What the Sword takes, the Tree gives.

At least, she was ninety-nine percent sure that’s what it said.

Grace gritted her teeth, closed her eyes, and reassured herself that she was never wrong when it came to her work. Never. She was wrong when it came to everything else, but her work was infallible.

That’s why she was here. She was the single most prestigious language expert in the world. And it was going to change her life. That was the plan. She’d worked hard to make sure no one noticed her. The weight she’d gained, the fashion-backward wardrobe, the overt hostility — when she couldn’t disappear into her surroundings, she kept people away with every weapon her extensive intelligence and vast vocabulary could come up with.

But Grace’s secret dream
was
recognition. She just wanted it on her terms. She was going to make
the
discovery of all time with this sword. It was the work she’d been waiting for her entire career. And now it was here. And, as long as her translation was right, it was about to save one of only four immortal human beings on the planet.

Career. Made.

Everyone would know her name; everyone would know she was something. And the best part? She’d be absolutely untouchable in a way she could not dream of cultivating on her own. No one walked up to the winner of the Nobel Prize and gave them a hug. They got the recognition without all the messy social baggage associated with being members of the human race. They were members of a class considered above such things. And Grace couldn’t wait to be admitted into their ranks.

Grace’s eyes snapped open when she heard the sharp clack of men’s shoes on the hard floor of the facility. Sergeant Collins was approaching.

Grace shrank back further into her corner, her shoulders bending in on themselves, but it was too late: he was looking right at her, and double damn, he’d noticed she was trying to turn into wallpaper if the arch of one of his salt and pepper eyebrows was any indication.

He stopped before her, and Grace couldn’t prevent the hitch in her breathing. Reaching distance. The man was within reaching distance. She bit her bottom lip to avoid a whimper.

“Dr. Tucker?” Sergeant Collins asked in his smooth, Southern whisky drawl. He then looked her over once more. His eyes softened. He took a step back and crossed his arms behind him, effecting “at ease” posture.

Relief flooded through her so strongly it momentarily overshadowed the embarrassment she felt at having someone else recognize her reticence at human contact. But only momentarily. Damn it, why couldn’t she be normal?

She straightened to her full height — a whole five feet five inches — and worked her hardest to look as un-crazy as possible. “What can I do for you, sir?” A lock of her frizzy, red hair fell over her glasses, blocking Sergeant Collins from sight. She shoved it out of the way, tucking it behind one of the pencils stuffed into her “style” of the day.

“Nothing more than you’ve done, ma’am,” he said with polite distance. “I’ve come to report that your findings seem to be accurate.”

Grace wanted to sag in relief, but was so wary of causing Sergeant Collins to think any less of her that she clenched her jaw and forced iron into her spine. No one would know how worried she’d been about her translation. She’d emit cool confidence all day long. Her “findings” included the recommendation that whatever damage the sword caused could be un-done by administering the fruit of the Tree of Eternal Life topically. They’d been forcing the fruit down Jericho’s throat for days to no effect. It was a nuance of the language that had given Grace the idea to apply the fruit to the site of Jericho’s wound.

“So, Jericho’s recovering?” Grace forced herself to ask, alarmed a little at the obvious worry in her voice. She didn’t care about him that much, did she?

A new voice sounded as it approached. “His skin is knitting together before our eyes.” Dahlia Edward’s brown eyes peeked around Collins’s shoulder, warm for the first time ever that Grace witnessed.

Grace actually liked Dahlia a lot, and not just because Jericho did. Grace hadn’t met many people who seemed to hate all others as much as Dahlia did. She was even more socially hostile than Grace. It was … refreshing.

“They think he’ll wake up any moment now, and I want to be there when he does, but I had to come thank you first,” Dahlia continued.

Grace felt her eyes widen. “Thanks” often involved touch of some kind. “That’s not necessary,” Grace muttered, crowding the corner again.

Dahlia rolled her eyes. “Relax, Red,” she said with a laugh. “God, it’s not like we’re going to attack you with hugs or anything.”

Grace didn’t laugh. She didn’t even notice when the two before her exchanged a worried look as her eyes glazed, and her mind turned over one of Dahlia’s words.

Attack. Attack. Attack
.

A loud snap erupted in front of her face.

Grace refocused to see Dahlia’s fingers before her eyes as the woman snapped again, this time accompanied by a sharp, “Grace!”

Grace sucked in a breath.

“Is she … ” Sergeant Collins trailed off as both women’s heads snapped around to glare at him.

Grace opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off with Dahlia’s curt, “She’s fine, Collins, God.” She then stood directly in front of Grace, blocking her from Collins’s sight, giving her a chance to compose herself. “Nothing some lunch and a good night’s sleep won’t fix. We’ve run her ragged. Give her some
grace
.” Dahlia snorted.

Collins threw Dahlia a wobbly smile. “I’ll just … um … call Miss Esperanza then. Tell her Jericho’s fine.” His mouth moved like a caress over the name of Dahlia’s former mother-in-law, his accent adding at least two syllables, and his eyes twinkling like a kid.

Dahlia looked at Grace and winked. “You do that, Collins.”

He cast one more concerned look toward Grace’s corner, not quite meeting her eyes, and backed off, hurrying away to his office.

As Dahlia watched him go, her hand fell to the small bump beneath her shirt. Grace was pretty sure she was the only person in the facility who had guessed that Jericho and Dahlia were expecting. There had been no announcement; there hadn’t been time before Jericho fell gravely ill. But Dahlia made that little movement often when she thought no one was looking.

She turned to Grace now and arched a perfect eyebrow.

“I really am fine,” Grace offered weakly.

Dahlia scoffed and muttered something in Spanish that Grace perfectly understood — dead languages weren’t her only specialty. Grace bristled. “Look, I’ll just get back to work.” The news of Jericho’s recovery was already spreading if the increased chatter in the room was any indication. She could re-join life now. She needed to get started on writing this up, though she knew publishing any of her top-secret findings was going to be an uphill battle. Possibly an impossible one.

Dahlia nodded once and began to turn away.

“Hey,” Grace blurted. Dahlia turned back to her. “Um … when he wakes up. Tell Jericho … I’m glad he’s okay.” Grace was shocked to find out she meant it.

Dahlia’s eyes roved Grace’s face for a moment, but then she smiled. “You’ve got it, Red.” She took two steps toward the medical wing, then stopped.

Grace watched the black waves cascading down Dahlia’s back rustle as the stunning Latina tilted her head to the side.

“Do you hear that?” Dahlia asked.