Mort panted, face down, chest heaving, obscenities flowing despite lack of breath. Henry pushed to his knees, held up his bound hands. Someone—he wasn’t sure who—sliced through the rope. He scrambled to his feet and started forward, certain he was too late.
In the moments since Botten had plunged from view, the fissure hadn’t grown, but Henry didn’t dare jump it. Pansy was on the other side, on hands and knees, blood drenching the earth in front of her.
Oh, no, no, no. The ground rumbled again, shaky and unstable. Henry did a quick survey, calculating, assessing. A groan emerged from the fissure, almost human-like. The start of the implosion, then? But no, the fissure itself was no larger. What, then? He dismissed the question and raced for Pansy.
By the time he reached her, she was already pale, those dark eyes impossibly huge. The soil was soggy with her blood. He knelt to gather her close, but she shook her head.
“Watch me,” she said, her words little more than air.
She took Botton’s knife and sliced her palm. Henry jerked forward, intent on grabbing it from her. But she flipped the blade around and handed him the hilt.
“You must be willing. That’s the only way it will work.” The pleading in her eyes nearly did him in once again. “You must be willing.” With that, she planted her bloody palm against the earth.
He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t think. He gave himself over to the impulse to follow this woman wherever she might lead him.
Henry wiped the blade against his trousers.
Then, with the knife’s edge pristine, he sliced through his own palm.
Chapter 88
Pansy
King’s End, Minnesota
Sunday, July 16
“Pansy … Pansy … Pansy…”
From somewhere very far away, Henry’s voice infiltrates my thoughts. Warm, lovely, coaxing, but beyond my reach.
“It’s over. You can come back now.”
Can I? He is so very far away, and all I can do is float. It’s dark here, but not frightening.
“Pansy, please. Come back to me.”
I want to tell him that I’ll try, but I don’t want to lie. I never want to lie to Henry.
“Come back.”
The misery in his voice is almost too much. But I must let everything go, everything I cherish. And I must do so willingly.
So I say goodbye to King’s End, to Adele, Guy, Milo, and Matilda. I say goodbye to my frivolous and fierce pink polka-dotted umbrella. She is somewhere nearby, shaking with sorrow. Mort and Jack—I let them go as well, like after every summer at the Academy, the sensation both sweet and bitter. I want to tell everyone that this is a journey I must make on my own, but I don’t think anyone can hear me.
Last of all, I say goodbye to Henry. I want to reassure him that this isn’t his fault; he did nothing wrong. I know he won’t believe me. He’s too stubborn, too honorable.
Instead, I let him slip away, bit by bit, until all that’s left is the echo of his voice, those soft, coaxing words I must refuse.
Come back.
Chapter 89
Ophelia
Seattle, Washington
Sunday, July 16
