“Here?” Jack is still shaking his head, and Ophelia doubts he’ll ever stop. “Sorry, buddy. But she’s not.”
Oh, and the blame is squarely on Mortimer.
“Let me,” Henry says.
Those two words reel Ophelia back down the chimney, whooshing her into the room, where she comes to rest on the sofa behind Henry. He is so solid, so sure. No one can deny him.
“Absolutely not.”
Except Mortimer. He raises a foot as if he could step across Pansy and pin Henry to the window frame this time.
“Don’t be stupid,” both Jack and Gwyneth say at the same time.
For a moment, their gazes meet, an odd alliance, this. Jack inclines his head, deferring to Gwyneth.
“If you’d like to explain to Botten why she’s unconscious, by all means, do so. If you’d like to explain how you know that and for how long you’ve known that?” Gwyneth raises her hands. “Again, by all means, knock yourself out. I’ll be happy to watch.”
No doubt Gwyneth would, complete with a front-row seat and VIP access.
But another odd alliance is brewing here in Pansy’s front room. No one has to say it. No blood oaths. No promises. Just the simple fact that no one here will ever speak of Pansy’s Sight. Ophelia’s heart pounds. In a distant part of her mind, she hears the beep, beep, beep of the monitor.
She slips from the sofa and slides next to Pansy. She leans down and whispers, “Can you believe this?”
It’s another one of those pyrrhic victories. True, Gwyneth has any number of ulterior motives. But both Jack’s and Mort’s affection run deep. Not even Botten can touch that. As for Henry?
He moves with subtle grace, easing into Jack’s spot on the floor so seamlessly, you’d never suspect he was recently brawling and holding his own, despite the toga.
Well, mostly.
His fingers come to rest on Pansy’s forehead, his expression tender and then anguished. But Henry stays the course. Ophelia knows he can remain like this for hours, for days. She always believed that the only reason he couldn’t bring her back was that he arrived too late. He was, after all, in the Philippines.
But what if he was never meant to bring her back? What if that was a practice run? What if, all this time, the Sight has been trying to propel her into action? Instead of hovering, wringing her translucent hands, and offering suggestions, maybe Ophelia can actually help.
She settles next to Pansy, her hands joining Henry’s. A connection fizzles through her, not with Henry, not with Pansy, but with both of them.
Back in Seattle, someone is panicking. Monitors beep and whir. Something cool enters her veins, but Ophelia hangs on for as long as possible.
Chapter 79
Henry
King’s End, Minnesota
Saturday, July 15
Only when Ophelia slipped away did Henry realize she’d truly been there, that it wasn’t his imagination. She left behind a path for him to travel through the grip the Sight had on Pansy’s mind.
If only he’d known how, all those months ago, perhaps Ophelia would be free of the Sight’s hold as well. Then something breezed through his thoughts, banishing the recriminations, smoothing over the rough edges of guilt.
It wasn’t your fault.
For the first time since Ophelia had succumbed to the coma did Henry believe it. When Pansy opened her eyes, the larger why came into focus, not that he could articulate it, not in words, at least.
Pansy gazed up at him. For a moment, it was just the two of them, like that first time he’d brought her back. The wonder in her expression. The well of joy in his chest. That sweet, tentative truce. What he wouldn’t give to travel back a week.
If only.
Now, he raised a finger to his lips and caught Pansy’s nod of assent.
