He leverages his shoulder beneath mine and helps me to stand. My legs wobble, and my knees threaten to buckle, but his arm is secure around my waist. Still, I’m like a colt taking its first steps.
We’re halfway to the couch when I do ask that question churning in the back of my mind.
“Who do you know with the Sight?”
His footing falters, the muscles tensing beneath my arm, the grip on my waist tightening. If I hadn’t been glued to his side, snuggled up right next to him—and the heat radiating off his body—I would’ve missed all these telltale signs.
“I’m sorry.” I rush my words, because this really isn’t any of my business. “It’s not my place to ask. You don’t?—”
“Let’s get you settled.” He maneuvers me onto the couch. “Are you hungry? I can make us some lunch. Sandwiches, perhaps?”
My stomach is suddenly hollow and rumbles in response to the suggestion. Loudly, I might add.
“Sandwiches it is,” he says, and the spark returns to his eyes. I—or at least my stomach—have provided a mission he can’t wait to tackle.
“I think the bread is stale.” I hate to admit it, but it’s true.
“French toast, then. We’ll have brunch.”
“I don’t have any syrup.”
He waves away the objection on his way to the kitchen. “I’ll improvise.” At the threshold, he pauses, a hand on the doorframe. He gives me another look, this one full of challenge. “And then, perhaps, we’ll talk.”
Chapter 24
Ophelia
King’s End, Minnesota
Tuesday, July 11
If the Sight has an upside—and attributing anything positive to the Sight is a stretch, as Ophelia knows too well—then it’s here, in the post-episode pampering.
And Henry knows how to pamper.
Even if he’s a bit perplexed by Pansy’s kitchen. As expected, he’s inspecting the bread for any hint of mold. Satisfied, he moves on, locating the ingredients he’ll need along with conducting a thorough inspection of the kitchen and the pantry.
He opens the refrigerator, extracting both the eggs and information.
“She’s definitely here alone,” he murmurs.
Not anymore.
He crouches to examine the bins and lower shelves. “Nothing.” He sighs. “How does she even cook?”
Pansy Little doesn’t cook. She forages.
Henry turns as if he can hear the sound of her voice. A shockwave rumbles through her. Sometimes, during these loops, when they’re this close, Ophelia believes he can sense her. Other times, she’s convinced it’s a cruel trick of the Sight. Even so, she’s greedy for these moments, no matter how false they might be.
He gestures to the mostly empty shelves. “It’s appalling. Does she spread ketchup on bread and call it dinner?”
With a shake of his head, he shuts the fridge and turns toward the pantry. This space is in better shape. Jars and bottles line the shelves. What isn’t store-bought is clearly labeled, complete with dates and ingredients. He selects raspberry preserves, some confectioners’ sugar, but his hand hesitates when it reaches the rack with the various tinctures.
That one. She uses that one after an attack like this.
He’ll ask anyway. Henry always does. Ophelia doesn’t bother to follow him down the hall. It’s a quick, efficient question and answer. Yes, true to form, he’s back and busy brewing tea and beating eggs.
The brunch spread grows in both substance and sophistication. Enough fresh fruit for a decorative platter. A mix of spices and vanilla for the French toast. He tilts his head, considers the confectioners’ sugar.
