“But it’s nothing that we can’t fix.”
Because Henry’s an optimist, at least when it comes to her.
I’m sick of hearing about myself.
“I was in the Sahara,” he says. “Did they tell you? Egypt, Libya, made a stop in Morocco on my way home—quite the tour of duty.”
Henry can’t read her mind, although, like now, it feels as if he can. But his patterns are predictable, and perhaps so are hers, from when they were children. They continue the conversation even if she can’t truly participate.
They didn’t tell me. On purpose, no doubt. That didn’t stop them from talking about it within earshot.
“Did you know that in a level five hot spot, desert Screamers can whip up a sandstorm?”
And you, like a fool, walked right into it.
“It was incredible. Nothing like it. It felt good to fight them. Honest, in a way. I needed to leave after the funeral. I was just so …”
Angry.
“And I…”
Missed him so much.
“And I simply couldn’t deal with…”
All the assholes at headquarters.
“He loved you so very much,” Henry says now, his voice splintering on the phrase. “I didn’t mention this earlier because everyone thought they could contest the will.”
Of course they did.
“But he left you a trust. I’m managing it for now, but it’s all yours. Not huge, but it’s sizable, and it’s certainly enough that you could…”
Walk away from the Enclave? Break her betrothal? Assuming, of course, this loop—this endless, endless loop—doesn’t break it for her. Wouldn’t that be a bonus?
“It raised some eyebrows, though.”
I imagine it did.
Harrison Darnelle was Henry’s father but not Ophelia’s. Her father has gone MIA, spending his time at Enclave headquarters, overseeing the High Council, wearing her predicament like a badge of honor. Her father has barely been home in months.
And Henry’s is dead.
From somewhere in the depths of the house, the doorbell chimes. No one in this room moves, not that they need to. They have, as her father would intone, people for that.
Oh, how Ophelia would love to answer the door. As a child, she’d race through the house whenever the bell rang, making bets with Henry about who stood on the other side. She always won. It was how they knew she had the Sight.
“Who can that be?” their mother says, her words full of annoyance tinged with something that sounds like fear. Miranda Connolly doesn’t have the Sight, but she can taste oncoming calamity. She says it sours the air.
The air must be very sour, indeed.
Then the voice. The last voice Ophelia heard before succumbing to this coma and the last one she wants to hear now. The voice is a herald of things to come, a reminder of all the futures she’s seen.
Henry’s fingers slip from hers. The chair legs scrape again when he stands.
“I’ll handle this,” he says.
The loop—that endless, endless loop—presses against her mind, drawing her back into its embrace. How many times now? Once she realized the Sight wouldn’t relent, Ophelia stopped counting. Whatever power keeps her in this loop can’t be broken. The future has many variations, too many to memorize. Not that Ophelia doesn’t try.
