It strikes me then. He wants this to be his fault. He wants the guilt. He wants to pay penance. I consider the man across from me. The façade of a legendary field agent. Posture impeccable. Dark eyes unfathomable. Even now, I have the sense he’s still on alert, ready to catch me if the Sight strikes again. It won’t, but what does hit me are those insidious, whispered words.
… you heard about Ophelia, didn’t you …
“What happened to Ophelia?”
“She was working on a special project, something that might allow a real-time relay of the Sight.”
I turn that over in my mind. “Do you mean like projecting our visions so others can watch?”
“In a sense, although they’ve been using a conduit who can see what the Sight is showing Ophelia and relay that information. Or at least, that was what the project was investigating.”
This is the most asinine thing I’ve ever heard. Having the Sight constantly knock against your mind and then invade is one thing. Inviting someone else inside for the show? The notion burns in my chest. I want to smash something, if not for me, then for Ophelia.
“It’s not like we’re Netflix. Or lab rats.” I want to add that what the Sight shows us isn’t always true or important, except it can be both. The Enclave, in particular, would want a front-row seat to the future. Instead, I say, “Everyone can wait until we wake up.”
When Henry doesn’t respond, those whispered words double back and thwack me upside the head. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. A moment later, my mother’s warning rings in my ears: All they will do is hone you into a weapon. When you are of no use, they will abandon you.
“Is she in a coma?”
He presses his lips together, his mouth a thin, grim line. He gives me a single nod that has me scrambling. I stop short of placing my hand on his, but I ease from the couch and lean across the coffee table. The scent of cinnamon swirls with the sorrow, and the air is heavy with both.
“I’m so sorry. I should’ve guessed, and I didn’t mean to?—”
“I believe you did guess.”
“Only because the Sight made sure I overheard something at the funeral.”
Henry shakes his head. Oh, he knows, even if he didn’t hear the words himself. “Enclave gossip strikes again. The situation is, as you can imagine, supposed to be private, not to mention highly classified.”
That’s never stopped anyone in the Enclave from gossiping. This, I suspect, would not have surprised my mother. “Steeped in ambition, avarice, and malice,” I murmur.
He raises an eyebrow at that, and from the twist of his lips, I can tell he agrees.
“Something my mother always said about the Enclave,” I add.
The silence in the front parlor is complete.
Yes, I used the past tense. Yes, something about Henry’s confession is prompting one of my own. I don’t know where to start, but I think of my mother’s final to-do list.
In the coming months, you’ll need to break some rules.
Trust that you’ll know which ones.
But in explaining about my mother, I will need to explain about King’s End. I will need both of her lists, because I’m about to break a major one:
Trust no one from the Enclave.
I’m braced to stand, ready to unearth the lists from their hiding place, when the ring of a cell phone shatters the silence.
Chapter 26
Henry
King’s End, Minnesota
Tuesday, July 11
Professor Reginald Botten either had impeccable timing or the absolute worst. Henry couldn’t decide which, but he also couldn’t let this call go through to voicemail. He answered, then stood to stretch his legs but remained in the room.
