“Miranda, please, calm down. It’s nothing like that.”
“Oh, really?” Her mother’s tone is arched and bitter cold. “Then, what is it? What is it you think she sees that’s so important?”
“I was merely assessing her situation, seeing if Leah could perhaps reach her?—”
“Bullshit.”
A hush falls over the room. Ophelia’s certain she’s never heard her mother swear, and she’s also certain no one else here has either.
“You’ve lied to me one too many times, Reggie.” Her mother’s voice is low and controlled. “I forbid you from setting foot in this house ever again.”
“As you wish, Miranda.”
While Ophelia is still half in King’s End and half in Seattle, she feels the full force of her mother’s wrath when she whirls toward the other person in the bedroom.
“And you, Leah Annabelle Connolly. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Leah is full-on sobbing now. It is, as Ophelia knows all too well, her cousin’s go-to response.
Her mother softens slightly. “I suppose you weren’t given much of a choice.” Her fury returns, but now her words are calculated, all the more frightening for their brittle precision. “I don’t care who you are or what sort of sway you hold with the High Council, or my husband, for that matter. You come near my daughter again, and I will personally end you.”
“Miranda—”
“I may not have the Sight, but you forget that I know things, Reggie. Things you might not like out in the open.”
“I see.” Botten’s voice is clipped. “We understand each other, then.”
Ophelia’s breathing rate increases to the point where the monitor starts to beep.
“I suggest you keep a careful eye on your daughter,” he adds. “Her health appears fragile.”
“Get out.”
“Come, Leah.”
“Leah, stay. Please. I didn’t mean to shout. I know Ophelia appreciates your company.”
“Now.” Botten’s command comes from far away, as if he’s already stepped into the hallway. “We’re leaving now, Agent Connolly.”
Her cousin dithers; Ophelia can sense it. But it doesn’t last. There’s no contest in this seemingly impossible choice. Leah sniffs, the sound thick, full of tears. After shuffling footsteps, the front door closes, a gentle click full of regret. In its wake, the house feels colder.
Pansy is still holding the photograph outstretched in front of her. Her arm doesn’t tremble. She is like a statue. She is like nothing Ophelia has ever encountered in all these loops. She flutters about, working to get Pansy’s attention.
Thank you, thank you! You can let go now. It’s safe. Henry’s safe. I can’t thank you enough, but you can let go now.
But Pansy doesn’t. Ophelia flits over to Henry and swirls about. He remains quiet, still obeying Pansy’s silent command. In forestalling Botten, has she made matters worse? Ophelia has trod this path to the end so many times. And yet, how is it that things continue to change? How can she help when everything she does makes things worse?
Help her, Henry. It’s safe now. Get her to sit, pour her some tea. It must be related to the Sight, but I don’t know how?—
He moves then, easing the photograph from Pansy’s grasp. Her arm is pliant beneath his, and a shuddering sigh fills the space as if only now she feels the toll. Henry touches her brow, her temples, with slow, almost sensuous strokes, all the while murmuring.
“Come back to me, come back to me. It’s safe. We’re safe.”
“I heard her again,” Pansy says, her voice soft and dreamy, as if the Sight is reluctant to let go. “She was worried about you.”
Both of you, really. Ophelia huffs.
“Who was worried?” Henry takes her hands and rubs them gently between his own, a concentrated frown on his brow as if this task takes all his attention.
