Ophelia opens her eyes. Gradually, at first, a soft blinking against a nightlight. Then, all at once, they fly open. The ceiling of her childhood bedroom looms above her, speckled with glow-in-the-dark constellations she painted after her first summer at the Academy. The ceiling she refused to repaint even after outgrowing things like artificial starlight and boy bands.
So, yes, Ophelia recognizes the view. She certainly doesn’t understand it.
Her mouth is parched. She tries to roll over and finds she can’t. Her muscles revolt, insisting that she hasn’t done this sort of activity for a very long time and what’s the sense in starting now.
An insistent beep, beep, beep sounds somewhere behind her. What an annoying sound. She grimaces and then notices how dry her skin feels.
Footfalls approach. A soothing voice follows.
“Hang in there, lovey, give me a minute, and I’ll…”
The voice and footfalls come to an abrupt halt.
“Lovey?” It’s a sweet voice, but now it’s filled with near terror. There’s a grappling, a small burst of static, and then a frantic, “Mrs. Connolly? Mrs. Connolly, are you awake? Please, come quickly.”
Bare seconds later, a commotion comes from down the hallway. A presence crashes into the room, nearly smacks against the bed. Now her mother looms over her, hair mussed, dark circles beneath her eyes, an old tattered robe tossed over her shoulders. Ophelia can’t remember a time when her mother has been so disheveled. It’s as if she’s coming apart at the seams.
“Ophelia?” Her mother’s voice cracks with agony and hope.
She wants to tell her mother to never trust hope, that it’s cruel. Except, of course, when it’s not.
“If you can hear me, sweetie, blink twice.”
She complies. Her mother weeps.
And for the first time in nearly a year, Ophelia Connolly smiles.
Chapter 90
Max
Sometime during the first decade, Max Monroe lost the habit of sleep. He doesn’t need to, not here in the in-between. So he’s alert when the space shifts, expands, and then collapses again. Another visitor trapped in this realm—a realm of Max’s own making, it’s true.
For some, this space is a sanctuary. He tends to his caretaker duties and makes certain these visitors are content. For others? This space is a prison. When warranted, Max enables their escape.
But this newest guest? Unexpected, to say the least.
His bed is warm. The woman curled next to him is a miracle that Max still can’t allow himself to completely believe. Rose has yet to lose the habit of sleep, so he pretends. And really, if you have an eternity before you, why not spend it in bed? Especially when your companion is the most desirable woman in any dimension.
But today? Today, Max Monroe has something else on his agenda.
“Rose, honey?”
“Hm?”
“I’m going to head out for a bit, pick up some bagels from The King’s Larder.”
“No, you’re not.” Her normally crisp voice is soft with sleep and amusement. “You’re sneaking off to see Pansy.”
Oh, if only that were the case. Max shuts his eyes, lets his mind travel a multitude of paths. He can see many things, many scenarios, many outcomes, it’s true. But not everything is available to him. Right now, one of those things is the outcome of that confrontation in King’s End.
Still. There is that newest visitor. And that’s something.
“I think she’s safe,” he murmurs, hardly daring to believe it.
“She’s with Adele. Of course she’s safe.”
Max sighs. Some days, he wishes he could immerse himself fully in this fantasy. But on days like today? He smiles, and he knows—without Rose awake to tell him—that it’s a feral thing, indeed. He slips from his warm bed, his warm wife.
