“I’m not sure.”
“Was it the same voice, the one from the green?”
“Yes. I’m certain it was.”
Get her to sit, give her some tea. Come on, Henry.
“I’d like some tea,” Pansy says, and Ophelia nearly laughs.
“And maybe to sit down?” Henry adds.
Now you’re getting somewhere.
Ophelia leaves them to it, lets go of the cozy basement, and fully returns to her bedroom in Seattle. Her mother is at her side, fussing with the comforter, placing items in Ophelia’s hands: a silk scarf she’ll never wear, the buttery leather of a purse she’ll never carry. Her mother smooths a rich balm across Ophelia’s skin, the sweet scent of gardenias banishing the sharp medicinal smell and the hint of decay that normally fills her room.
It’s only when something hot and wet lands on her cheek—and is hastily swept away—that Ophelia realizes her mother is crying.
Chapter 34
Pansy
King’s End, Minnesota
Wednesday, July 12
Henry is sitting on the low table across from me, as if the proximity will help him examine each sip of tea I take. My shoulders ache, but the cup warms my fingers, and the caffeine clears the fog from my head. Still, I could really do without the scrutiny.
Well, almost. His knees brush against mine. This close, I can detect a hint of five o’clock shadow along his jaw. Those dark eyes with the gold flecks don’t miss a thing, though. I can’t even sigh without him mentally recording the response.
“Are you sure you’re okay,” he says, maybe for the fifth or sixth time. I’ve lost count.
“Yes, Agent Darnelle, I’m fine.”
That earns me a smile with a dimple. “Forgive me. I’m simply worried. This is uncharted territory. It’s most curious.”
That it is. “She cares about you,” I say. “This person on the other side.”
“She?”
I nod. “And she knows you, in the way a family member would.”
I realize that I shouldn’t implicitly trust random voices that pop into my head. But I can’t help wondering if this particular voice is Ophelia Connolly. She sounds young—young and trapped. Or rather, young and trapped and desperate. It’s Henry she’s trying to save. But from what? That isn’t clear.
“Have you ever heard of such a thing?” I ask. Who knows, maybe it’s in all the classified information the Enclave doesn’t let permanent post agents see.
Henry shakes his head. “No, but then, agents with Sight such as yours or Ophelia’s are rare, a once-in-a-century occurrence.”
“Or so the Enclave thinks.”
Henry gives a mirthless laugh. “Exactly.”
“Do you think it might be Ophelia?” I hate to ask. It feels like a crass sort of question. The last thing I want to do is hurt him.
He doesn’t recoil, doesn’t stand and walk away. Instead, he eases the cup from my grip and then takes my hands in his.
“I’m afraid I’m pinning all my hopes on the fact that it is. Part of me wants you to continue to forge this connection with her because it might be the one thing to…”
He falters, and I hear the words he can’t say: Bring her back.
