“But these trances.” His grimace is full of self-reproach. “They scare me. I can’t ask you to risk yourself like this.”
“I’m not sure I have a choice. Besides, it doesn’t feel risky.”
He raises an eyebrow at that. Yes, he’s correct. This is the Sight we’re dealing with, and it absolutely could be risky. He’s still assessing me, chin tilted, lips compressed, a million thoughts swirling behind his gaze.
“I’m wondering what it is about your Sight that’s different, that’s allowing this,” he says at last.
“You think it’s me and not Ophelia?”
“We can trace Ophelia’s Sight back to our maternal great-grandmother. It manifested very much the way Ophelia’s does, although to be honest, our great-grandmother had far more discipline when it came to the Sight.”
“My mother always said my grandfather had the Sight,” I offer.
“No, he didn’t.”
Oh, really? And Henry knows this how? My expression must turn stormy and sour, because he quickly adds, “At least, it’s not in his records.”
“You checked?”
“The second I realized you had the Sight.”
Of course he did. This is Henry Darnelle. He probably constructed a complete Little family tree.
“Just because it’s not in the Enclave’s database doesn’t mean he didn’t have the Sight,” I counter.
“Yes, I thought of that,” he concedes. “I went back as far as we have records. The Little line has any number of fine agents, your mother in particular.”
See? He did create a family tree.
“But there’s no hint that any of them had the Sight. So, your father?—”
“Was a local,” I finish.
“Are you certain?”
Am I? I sigh. “Not anymore.”
Henry leans back and reaches behind him. He plucks a photograph from the floor, the one that Ophelia—yes, I’m certain it’s Ophelia—had me hold. He lets it rest in his palms so we both can study it.
“Why this photo?” he asks. “Any idea?”
“She said she needed something to look at. No matter what I did, I wasn’t supposed to look at you. And I had to get you to shut the hell up.”
This earns me yet another arched schoolmaster eyebrow.
“Her words, not mine. She said your life depended on it.”
Henry falls silent and remains so for several long moments. Then he holds up a finger, although I’m not about to say anything or go anywhere. The only thing I’m going to do is pour us both another cup of tea. So I do, and that’s when Henry pulls out the burner phone and makes a call.
“Mother, it’s Henry. I’m calling to ask how—” he begins.
Words stream from the phone, drowning out his question. I can’t discern what Miranda Connolly is saying, but the panic, the sorrow, and the anger in her voice vibrate in the air around me. That telltale temptation to activate the Sight presses against my skull. Just for a moment. Dip into the past. The voice almost croons.
That’s when I lock it down, because that particular invitation sounds wrong. It scrapes against my ears, and I want nothing to do with it.
At last, Henry hangs up with a promise to return home soon. He holds a hand over his mouth, in contemplation again, weighing something. His sigh, before he speaks, is heavy.
“My mother stepped out for a bit, and when she returned, she found Professor Botten with Ophelia.”
