Page 176 of The Pansy Paradox
“Because I know it’s something, but I can’t tell what. Only that it tastes wrong. It tastes like revenge. Mort said something about a gateway, something Botten told him. But it isn’t the truth.” Jack pushes his hands through his hair and then stares toward the ceiling, as if he can find all the answers there. “I doubt Mort knows the truth.”
Jack’s right, of course, even if I can’t articulate why, as if Botten’s curse extends to me as well. Then the memory of his voice makes my heart skitter.
A wild rose for our wild Rose.
That offer, palm outstretched, the seductive lilt of an invitation. Had he expected my mother to accept that offer, to betray Harry Darnelle? Botten was presenting her with the world, crowning her his queen.
And she refused.
Dread fills my stomach, and I sniff, just a bit, but it’s enough to alarm Jack.
“Oh, god, Pansy, sit, sit.” He urges me toward the bed, and I relent again because it’s easier this way.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “Just an aftershock.”
After a good ten minutes of fussing, I convince him that all I want is sleep. He’s at the door when I call out to him.
“Maybe you should head back to Seattle. Fly standby if you have to.”
“You mean tonight?”
I nod. He hasn’t asked me what I saw when I was unconscious, and he won’t. But a sudden steel invades his gaze. He raises his chin as if he can taste fleeting visions of things to come.
“I will if you will.”
“I can’t.”
“Then I can’t, either.”
The sadness in his eyes pierces me. Then, with resolve, my best friend turns and shuts the door behind him.
The tea in my cup is the perfect temperature for drinking, but I resist the urge to gulp it down. I brewed one of my mother’s most potent recipes, and I don’t need it coming right back up. Tiny sips, the herbs tangy against my tongue.
The potion works. It will keep me sharp, keep me focused, keep me awake for the next six hours. After that? Well, after that, it might not matter anymore.
With the bedroom door locked—I don’t need Mort bursting in at an inopportune moment—I head for the closet. I plan to pull out the memory box, but the disarray stops me short. Sweaters and shoes shoved to one side, lids on the file boxes askew. Someone has conducted a very hasty and somewhat casual search of my closet, the file boxes in particular.
Someone who clearly doesn’t care if I notice or not.
I crouch and inch closer, inspecting the ransacked files, observing the spilled photographs, and plucking the single strand of blond hair caught on the cardboard corner of one box. A strand of hair that is, mind you, far too long to be Mortimer’s.
What, if any, photographs are missing, I can’t tell. Some, certainly. But I don’t have time to sort through the mess. What I want is the memory box, which is still tucked in its corner, flush against the back wall.
It’s only when I’m seated cross-legged on my bed, fingers clutching a lock pick, that I notice that someone has been here before me, too. Henry’s efforts left the brass around the lock pristine. Now, several scratches mar the surface.
My lock-picking skills reside somewhere between Henry’s excellent ones and those of the person who gouged the front of the memory box. Again, did they think I wouldn’t notice?
I shut my eyes and pull in a breath. In the grand scheme of things, does it matter? Because I don’t think they found what they were looking for, the same way Henry and I didn’t. Because sometime between Henry leaving and my tea water boiling, the reason why memories are precious and I should keep them close came to me.
The lock springs open on my fifth try. With care, I remove the photo albums, wondering what Gwyneth Worthington-Wells made of my prom and if it captivated her as much as it did Henry. Somehow, I doubt it.
I run my fingers around the inside edges of the box, pushing gently against the base. One corner gives ever so slightly before it pops open to reveal a false bottom.
There, in my mother’s hand, is a letter addressed to me.
Chapter 81
Ophelia
