Pansy glances away and rolls her eyes, her gaze on the spot where Ophelia stands. Although Ophelia isn’t here physically, this exchange feels so intimate. It shoots through her with a force that surprises her. For a moment, Pansy hesitates, her expression full of wonder. Ophelia thinks Pansy might even stretch out a hand and test the air, but then she turns back to Henry.
“His name is Daniel, and he’s a genius.” Her tone clearly implies she wants to get this over with.
Henry raises both eyebrows at the proclamation. He’s not through, not yet, not even close. He’s always assessing the situation, and this one contains a potential rival. And not just any rival, but one who’s a genius.
Be a shame if you weren’t the smartest person in the room at some point.
Ophelia can’t help herself. She flits over to Henry and peers over his shoulder. He’s studying the photo from the prom’s grand march, Pansy and Daniel at the apex of the bridge leading into the King’s End Community College ballroom. Ophelia knows this story well and is mightily jealous of Pansy’s dress: a strapless, 1950s cocktail dress, black, with polka dots—of course—and massive petticoat ruffles. Daniel is in a vintage tuxedo, complete with a top hat and cane.
Pansy, Ophelia suspects, has a thing for smart men in ridiculous hats.
Ophelia’s about to get comfy when something tugs at her consciousness. Indeed, she was about to curl up in one of the overstuffed chairs and listen as Pansy relates this tale of high school sweethearts—one that starts innocently enough and ends with Pansy nearly bleeding out.
That something is back in Seattle. That’s a problem because Ophelia is very much here, in King’s End. The plaintive cry of her umbrella reaches her. The small sliver of herself that remains in that hospital bed, the part of her mind that tracks her physical surroundings, knows something is wrong.
An exchange comes from the threshold of her bedroom. The nurse, arguing with someone, a man with a sonorous voice. Her mind seizes. Here, in this cozy basement, her form freezes. No matter that she’s ethereal, and the laws of physics don’t apply. She can’t move.
The man overpowers the nurse, not physically, although Ophelia wouldn’t put it past him. He takes a seat at her bedside and takes her hand in his. His palm is fleshy but not soft, and his grip is strong. This is a man who can still wield an umbrella, tame Screamers, and best most agents currently in the field.
If she could recoil, if she could slap, if she could spit, she would. All she can do is remain as she is, frozen in both realities. It’s the worst sort of option: no fight, no flight, only freeze. From the doll house comes the involuntary shudder of her umbrella.
“Hello, my dear,” the man says. “It’s Professor Botten.”
Yes, I know who you are. I know what you are.
“I’m wondering if you might be willing to share what’s going on in here.” With a finger, he taps her temple.
It sounds like a request and a simple one at that. It’s neither. Botten has never peered inside her head. He doesn’t possess the skills for it. He must rely on a third party, a conduit, who can describe the images in Ophelia’s mind.
Botten turns, the sound of the chair scraping against the floor filled with impatience. “Don’t just stand there. Come in.”
“I’m … I mean, Aunt Miranda isn’t?—”
Oh, that second voice gives away so much. Her mother must be out. While Miranda Connolly doesn’t need to run errands (again, they have people for that), Ophelia knows the escape does her good. She hardly needs her mother constantly at her side. Until, of course, she does.
Like now.
Because that second voice belongs to Leah Connolly—her cousin, her former best friend, and the other person there the day Ophelia slipped into this coma.
Ophelia can admit now that it was the tedium that got to her, made her reckless, enticed her to play. She lacks Henry’s focus, his dedication to even the most mundane tasks. Her research sabbatical was exciting at first. She was the star of the show, after all. It was all about her, and Ophelia loves when it’s all about her. Besides, maybe, by sharing her visions, she could relieve some of the pressure of the Sight and keep it from spinning her into unconsciousness and despair.
Only weeks into her two-year-long commitment, she was bored. It was easy to invoke the Sight. Botten’s gentle hypnosis lulled her in and out of sessions with a simplicity that was deceptive. And those first weeks he was gentle, was encouraging. Ophelia was a special breed and had every reason to be proud of her ability, or so he claimed.
It was easy to establish that Leah was the best conduit for her; they’re cousins, after all, born three days apart. Twins, they called themselves, even though Ophelia is dusky, with the dark curls and birdlike bone structure of her mother. Leah is a golden goddess, blonde and blue-eyed like so many of the Connollys.
It was easy to establish that Leah could only convey what was in Ophelia’s direct line of sight. The constant commands to turn one way, then the other, to walk the perimeter, look up, now down, with Botten’s voice growing ever more impatient, began to wear on both her and Leah. Ophelia felt like a dog on a leash, tethered to Botten, her master in all this.
Research, Ophelia decided, was hardly her strong suit. She wanted to be back in the field, not a lab rat stuck in Seattle. She found herself wondering if the Enclave would even let her back into the field now that it’d been established that her Sight was so strong, so exceptional.
Was she condemned to this, then? If it wouldn’t harm her Sight, might the Enclave crack open her skull, peer inside, and discern how it all works? Not for the first time did she wonder if that would be her ultimate fate.
So Ophelia started doing what she always does when she’s bored. She played. Leah could only see what Ophelia showed her. Why not make her extraordinary Sight so utterly ordinary? Certainly, after a few months of that, they’d have no recourse but to send her back into the field. With some small adjustments, Ophelia became a master at the art of deception.
This, she realizes now, may have been her downfall. Or perhaps her salvation, such as it is. That first time she stepped into this loop, the Sight didn’t show her the start—the scrape of chair legs as Henry stands—but events near the end.
The Sight is all about spoilers, after all.
Ophelia ignored the obvious signs of an Enclave task force, hastily deployed. Instead, she focused on those lovely things on the periphery. The cemetery with its ancient oaks and weathered headstones; the fields, both cultivated and fallow. The breeze that stirred the leaves and kissed her cheeks.
