Page 38 of Salt Kiss
Sedge’s full mouth turns down. He is very pretty when he pouts. “I know as much as you do. He won’t even give me a proper set of dates for the trip, much less its purpose or if he’s taking any meetings there. All I know is that he plans to fly there and sail back, but since he won’t give me the dates, I can’t even book the flight.”
If Sedge is having trouble getting answers out of Mark, I know I’ll fail for sure. I’ve learned that Mark seems to have no greater pleasure than giving me needlessly cryptic responses to ordinary questions—or worse, turning the questions back around on me.
But I’ll still have to try; I can’t allow him to take an international trip with zero precautions.
“Thank you,” I tell Sedge now, and I make to leave.
Sedge lifts a hand, and says, “Tristan?”
I stop. “Yes?”
He tucks a lock of chin-length hair behind his ear. “You’re going to Cornwall in a few days.”
I nod. The trip was on the books before I came on, and we’re staying at a property Mark owns, so the passive security there is already very robust. No meetings, no excursions. If I didn’t know any better, I’d call the days in Cornwall a vacation, but I do know better.
Mark Trevena doesn’t seem the vacation type.
“I’ve never—well, I’ve only been here a year and half, but I’ve never traveled with him. So this was secondhand from Strassburg. But Mark takes this trip every year at the same time, and Strassburg told me once that Mark likes to be left alone for it. In fact, he usually sent Strassburg away to stay at an inn nearby.” Sedge looks awkward, like he thinks he’s betraying Mark’s loyalty somehow. “I just didn’t want you to be caught unawares.”
“Thank you,” I say, not sure what to make of this warning. It stings preemptively, because if he didn’t even want Strassburg with him—Strassburg whom he fucked, whom he dominated—then I can’t imagine he’ll want me there either.
And I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t care.
Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow a different person, unobsessed, and I won’t mind at all.
Mark says verylittle on the flight to London, and then on the second flight to Newquay. When we pick up the rental car at the airport, Mark slips a small device out of his shoulder bag and attaches it magnetically to the bottom of the car.
I stare at it and then stare at him.
“No one but Sedge, Strassburg, and the caretaker knows where this place is. And now you,” says Mark. His voice is subdued. “I prefer to keep it that way.”
“Does it block the car’s location?” I ask, getting inside. It’s a nondescript car, a small gray sedan a few years old, not the sleek sports car I still imagine when I think of Mark driving somewhere.
Except this makes more sense, actually, like the Camry a couple weeks ago—it would be a terrible CIA operator who flashed around in a memorable car, visible and interesting.
“Something like that,” Mark says, and then his expression is almost conspiratorial when he adds, “Melody got it for me. Don’t tell anyone.”
The drive to the property takes over an hour as we move away from the coast and into the heart of Cornwall. Mark drives, his large hands on the steering wheel and the gear shifter, making the unremarkable sedan hum to life under his capable, subtle touch.
I think I’m jealous of a car.
We pass through valleys, through moors and the occasional village, until trees begin to fringe the side of the narrow road, thicker and thicker still, until we dip into a valley deeper than the others, deep enough that it still feels like spring has only just started here while the rest of the peninsula is in full, heady bloom.
The road narrows even more as we pass through two brick posts, each topped with a roaring lion, which are weathered into lichen-spotted suggestions of themselves. The trees are thick enough now that they meet over the road, joining together in a tangle of dark branches and new leaves. And then the road twists and the trees break abruptly to reveal a stone house of two stories, two chimneys, and plenty of glittering windows. There’s a conservatory at one end, a stretch of overgrown garden, and a small chapel that looks older than everything else.
Magnolia trees in full bloom dot the grounds, the breeze sending white and pink petals fluttering to the grass. Gardenia bushes with fat, white flowers spread beneath the front windows, and anxious birds flap between them and the narrow graveyard next to the chapel. “Morois House,” Mark announces as he stops the car in front of the black-lacquered door.
It’s the last thing he says to me for two days.
Through whatever cardiganmagic Sedge wields, he has Morois House ready for us when we walk inside. Every room smells fresh and is free of dust, the kitchen is stocked with enough food to feed a platoon for a month, and when I find the small closet housing the thin but sufficient network of security cameras, everything is in perfect working order.
Mark doesn’t even bother dropping his bags. He swipes an unopened bottle of scotch from a long buffet table in the kitchen and then stalks straight into a book-lined room I assume is the library, bringing his things with him.
He shuts the door before I can follow him in.
At least I have the dubious comfort of knowing that it isn’t anything I’ve done, but it is still strange that first night, making sandwiches for dinner alone, my knocks to the library door going unanswered.
The next day I wake to find the library door still shut, and with nothing really bodyguard-like to do, I decide to explore the wooded area around the house and get a sense of the grounds.
