Their umbrellas have already abandoned the pretext and nuzzle close together against the wall next to the door.
Henry is sitting on the floor, surrounded by piles of papers and notebooks meticulously annotated. Harry Darnelle was nothing if not thorough. Ophelia knows this: the desire to read his father’s field notes must have made Henry’s heart lurch with both joy and anguish.
“Oh,” Pansy says. “What’s this doing here?”
Henry glances up and places a finger to mark his place in the notebook he’s reading. As always, he’s on high alert, even though Pansy’s tone is more curious than alarmed.
She tugs a cedar box from the bottom of one bookshelf. The lid is adorned with decoupage roses and pansies, with reds, pinks, and purples, a celebration of mother and daughter. The box is sizable, with enough room to store elementary school artwork and small photo albums, which, Ophelia knows, it does.
“It’s my mother’s memory box,” Pansy tells Henry.
They stare at each other from across the room, and Ophelia can see the wheels turn in Henry’s mind.
“Memories are precious—” he begins.
“Keep them close.” Pansy finishes. “It couldn’t be that simple.” She places her palm on the lid. “Could it?”
Henry raises an eyebrow. “Maybe we should take a look.”
Pansy lugs the box to the low table, but then there’s the lock and no key. This isn’t an issue for long. Henry has his messenger bag. From one of its pockets, he pulls out a set of lock picks.
He starts to work, and Pansy leans forward, clearly fascinated.
“More surprises?” she says. “I think I’ve misjudged you, Agent Darnelle.”
“No.” He meets her gaze, that deadpan delivery in place. “You haven’t.”
Pansy blinks, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink. Their faces are close, so close that they must share a breath. Henry forgets all about the lock pick clutched between finger and thumb. They’ve approached this precipice before, possibly more than Ophelia has witnessed. She is thankful the Sight has spared her most of these near misses.
Shut it down, Henry. Get back to work.
He does, although she’s certain it’s his internal compass that’s guiding him rather than anything she’s thought in his direction.
“I don’t want to scratch the plate,” he says and bends forward, intent on this task.
The lock is brass and not all that challenging. Someone with less finesse and patience will scratch that little brass plate and not care. But that isn’t Henry. And that, Ophelia knows, comes later.
“Any idea what might be in here?” he asks.
Pansy shakes her head. “None. This was a mother-daughter sort of project. Maybe for Mother’s Day? The King’s End Community Center sponsors things like that. I remember, though, it wasn’t long after my father died. So I must have been around four or five.”
Inside is the expected artwork, and a collection of letters bound with a ribbon. The Enclave doesn’t let cadets have phones during the summer. The only way to communicate with the outside world is by letter, and yes, those are routinely censored. There are several small photo albums, but Henry grabs the one on the top. He always does, as if some instinct is steering his hand.
He opens the album and is lost immediately. Pansy stays on task. Perhaps it’s the Sight. Too much flirting with the past, and it might decide to take you there. Pansy only realizes Henry has stopped sorting through items when his low, amused chuckle reaches her.
“No,” she says, her face stricken. “Just no. What do you have?” She holds out a hand, demanding the album. “The prom photos? Because if those are the prom photos?—”
“So, who’s your lucky escort?”
Pansy closes her eyes. “Can we not do this?”
Oh, but they are doing this. Henry is a dog with yet another bone.
“Really, it’s delightful, and I’m just curious.” His smile is disarming, the crinkles around his eyes deep and sincere. “I went to an all-boys boarding school. We didn’t have dances, and certainly not a prom.”
“No dances? Did you have any fun at all?”
“It was very academically focused.”
