Pansy nods, her gaze dreamy and unfocused. Her grip loosens on the container, and it nearly pitches to the floor.
Now, that would’ve been a mess.
Pansy sits back on the coffee table and secures the lid, not that it helps with the stench. Henry reaches for his T-shirt and, after a brief tug-of-war, allows Pansy to help him pull it back on. The cotton catches on his chest, and he cringes, ever so slightly.
“I know,” Pansy says.
“I believe it will be worth it.” He plucks at his shirt. “My head is definitely clearer, and the wound is subdued.”
“You’ll feel better in the morning. Maybe not fully back to normal. That’s going to take a while to heal.” She shakes her head as if still seeing that wound in her mind’s eye. “But now? I think you should rest. That will do you the most good.”
“We both should rest.” He nods to the blanket and pillow and the cozy nest they make on the floor. “And you shouldn’t have to sleep there. Can you make it up the stairs?”
“It’s … I mean, I don’t?—”
Before Pansy can finish, Henry plucks the pillow from the floor, scoots over on the couch, and pats the space next to him in invitation.
“Merely resting,” he says. “We both need to recuperate.”
Anyone else, and Ophelia wouldn’t believe it. Even if his lesser angels steer once in a while, Henry’s moral compass is strong and sure.
“Besides, I don’t like the idea of you being alone,” he adds.
Not that he’s in any condition to play knight in shining armor.
He casts the floor a dismissive glance. “Nor should you sleep there.”
“I don’t want to leave you alone, either.” Pansy is wavering, weighing those pros and cons in her own way. But her expression is so soft that Ophelia suspects Henry has already won.
“See?” He gestures to the couch. “We’re stuck with this.”
Gingerly, oh so gingerly—as if she hasn’t been held in a very long time—Pansy eases herself next to Henry. He snuggles her in close, in the crook of his shoulder. They fit together, flawlessly. Pansy’s expression is a delicate blend of caution and bliss. Her hair spreads across his arm, and the look of pure contentment on her brother’s face is nothing Ophelia has ever seen before. This perfect moment hurts so much that Ophelia wishes she could scoop up some of that goo and spread it across her heart.
Pansy falls asleep almost immediately. Henry remains awake, a furrow of concern on his brow. His gaze doesn’t track Ophelia, but she knows he senses what she does.
The coming storm—the one triggered by the SOS his umbrella sent out this morning—rests heavily on his mind. The Enclave will arrive, and soon. That much is certain. Not even calling in an all-clear will stop that. In a matter of a few hours, King’s End has gone from a permanent post assignment—and a shit one, at that—to a level five hot spot.
Her brother weighs each course of action, taking into account the machinations of sending a response team and how many players will have a hand in that. Botten, certainly. But all members of the High Council will also be notified. No one likes to let a good crisis go to waste, the High Council in particular.
What happens once the response team arrives? The scenarios play out in Henry’s expression, a tic here, a twitch of his lips there. But they’ve never trod this path before.
And not even Ophelia knows the answer to that.
Chapter 47
Pansy
King’s End, Minnesota
Friday, July 14
The insistent buzz of text messages pulls me from a sleep I don’t want to leave. Checking my phone means moving, and I don’t want to do that, either. I’m here, next to Henry, and this couch is somehow wide enough for the two of us.
Waking means facing whatever we need to face today. Waking means leaving his warmth, this comfort, the way my feet nestle against his, how my head fits in the crook of his shoulder, his hand resting against my waist. His fingertips have found that sliver of skin between my pajama bottoms and cami. The feel of that is so delicious and forbidden that I could hold still for hours and soak it in.
Waking means leaving all that behind. I know, without a doubt, that this is not my new normal.
My phone buzzes again, impatient. A rattling comes from the umbrella stand, full of frantic warning. That has me slipping off the couch and to the floor. I paw the coffee table for my phone. On the screen is a series of increasingly anxious text messages from Guy:
