“You know what?” he says, thumbing through the stack of papers. “I’m going to work on your trust first.”
Ophelia flops back, disappointment thick in her mouth. She’s working up a good sulk when she notices her brother. Before turning his attention to the paperwork, he threads the ribbon through his fingers.
Then, in a gesture that’s both deliberate and absent-minded, Henry slips it into his pocket.
Chapter 93
Pansy
King’s End, Minnesota
Monday, August 14
The last thing you want to see after a prolonged patrol in the housing development is someone from the Enclave on your front porch.
Even if that someone is Principal Field Agent Henry Darnelle.
Once again, he’s on the porch swing. Once again, he’s in full regalia: a charcoal gray suit, a pop of white dress shirt at the collar and cuff. Yes, even that ridiculous hat has made a return. The swing creaks under his weight, the sound deliberate and patient.
My umbrella shudders in my grip. I clutch her tighter, expecting an all-out rebellion. But she snuggles close, as nervous and uncertain as I am. What is he doing here? The question is both mine and hers, and the Sight isn’t offering up a single hint.
Typical. Just when you actually need it.
The last time I heard anything from Henry, it was in the form of his signature on my field agent examination report. Yes, after everything. He filed my report. On time, mind you. Not only did I earn a superior rating (the official Enclave term for passing with flying colors), but he recommended me for the accelerated track to senior field agent.
I’m not sure what to do about that. It means time in Seattle, away from King’s End.
Henry still hasn’t moved except to set the swing in motion, so I glance behind me, toward the housing development. Then I turn back to Henry.
There are things I long to tell him. How my renegotiations with the Screamers are going. How the housing development has changed. How I can see those fairy lights flicker whenever I pass close to the woods.
How I’m not sure I can leave King’s End. Ever.
And, most of all, how much I’ve missed him.
I can’t stand here forever, and I lack the will to push through my neighbor’s lilac bushes. Plus? I don’t feel like hiding anymore.
I glance down at my umbrella, my question little more than a whisper. “What do you think?”
She shudders again, this sensation mischievous. She flies from my grip. Although, really? I give her a bit of a boost. She soars forward, sticks the landing, and then tumbles end over end until she reaches my house. There, she plummets to the sidewalk, not so much a damsel-in-distress as a prima ballerina.
She is, however, still absolutely shameless.
Henry’s umbrella topples down the front porch steps. How, I don’t know. There’s nothing in the Enclave’s Umbrella User Manual that explains these two.
Then? They cavort to the point where I’m blushing on their behalf. Fortunately, they move the canoodling beneath the hydrangeas before it strays into PG-13 territory. How I’d explain that on Hey Neighbor, I have no idea.
Henry’s studying the shaking hydrangeas with concern and a touch of amusement. It’s there in the twist of his lips. Then he looks at me, and I’m pinned in place, sneakers glued to the concrete.
“Shall we let them get reacquainted?” he says.
My throat is so thick, my heart so tender, I can only nod.
“How are you?” The inquiry is polite and so very much like him.
Again, I nod. The man has stolen all my words, the ability to speak. Hat in hand, he makes his way down the porch steps.
“The Enclave is opening a field office in Minneapolis. Have you heard?”
