Chapter 54
Ophelia
King’s End, Minnesota
Friday, July 14
Mortimer Connolly is not the chef Henry is, but he isn’t half bad. The scent of pesto—of basil and pine nut—wafts in the air. A pot of water boils on the stove, waiting impatiently for the pasta. He’s finished chopping the last vegetables for a colorful salad and set fresh tea to brew.
All of this, the actions of the best kind of friend. He’s even made a dessert, a rich crème brûlée that only needs a dusting of sugar and a blast from a torch before it’s complete.
But Ophelia sits cross-legged on the kitchen table, chin planted on her fists, and glares. She doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch, not even when Gwyneth enters the kitchen.
“How’s our patient?” Mort asks.
“Asleep again, but otherwise, better than he has a right to be.”
“Then we’re lucky.”
“Hm. I suppose you could see it that way.”
“Botten have any idea about his wound?”
Gwyneth scowls and shakes her head. “Nothing. He assumes I’ll figure it out. ‘I have every faith in your capabilities, m’dear.’”
The imitation is spot on, and Mortimer snorts. “In other words, he’s not too concerned.”
“Apparently not.”
“Are you?”
Gwyneth pauses, lips pursed in thought. “I saw him, briefly, after he walked out of the Sahara. I was at a conference in Switzerland and rerouted my flight home so I could visit during a layover.” She shakes her head. “He wasn’t this bad. This morning he was fine, all things considered. But since then—” She pauses, her gaze tipped toward the ceiling. “It’s his awareness more than anything. He’s so unresponsive. Even injured, Henry is always mentally sharp. I can’t make sense of it.”
“It’s been barely twenty-four hours. A bit of backsliding is normal, especially with what we’re dealing with.”
To her credit, her presumptive sister-in-law’s sigh is filled with regret. Perhaps, in her own way, she cares for Henry. Still, in every path Ophelia has traveled, that concern comes too little and always too late.
Mort dumps a box of rigatoni into the pot. Steam hisses and rises into the air. In the clatter of dishes, no one hears the slight creak of the floorboards in the hallway. No one, that is, except Ophelia. She doesn’t turn, doesn’t even glance in that direction. Ridiculous, really. She’s not here, not corporeal, and her attention can’t betray Henry.
Even so, her heart grows so tight in her chest that she can’t bear to risk it.
“Blood draws?” Mort asks.
“Yes. Both of them. More than enough.” Gwyneth pulls a cup toward herself and reaches for one of the teapots sitting on the counter. Mort lunges and covers the spout with his palm before she can pour.
“Nope. Not that one. Not unless you want to sleep until noon.” He nods toward the ceiling.
“Really?”
Mort turns back to the pasta. “Really.”
Gwyneth lifts the lid and brings her face close to the liquid inside the teapot. Then she pours the tiniest amount into a spoon, dips her ring finger into the cooling tea, and places the drop on her tongue. “I’m assuming it’s safe.”
Mort gives her a grin. “Don’t trust me?”
Gwyneth bristles. “I didn’t say that.”
“It’s a restorative, one of Rose’s recipes, ironically.”
