Page 97 of The Pansy Paradox
“And she trusted your father enough to tell him?”
“Along with Botten, which clearly was the wrong thing to do.”
“Do you know how she was betrayed?”
Henry loosened his grip on her, shoulders to elbows, elbows to hands. He cast a glance toward the bridge, mundane and dilapidated. “Apparently, I’m smart enough to figure it out.”
“You are that.” She exhaled again, a long breath that deflated her. “I wish I knew what was going on.”
So did Henry. But here wasn’t the place to figure that out. He doubted the vortex would open again anytime soon. Mosquitoes nattered around his ears, one finding a spot on the nape of his neck before he could slap it. Birdsong filled the morning once again. The light, though, was the giveaway. The sun filtered through the leaves, painting the forest floor in a wash of benign gold.
“Shall we go home?” he asked, his voice low and gentle.
Pansy looked at the covered bridge, the sorrow in her gaze tangible. “I suppose we should.”
“On second thought, I have another idea.” For the briefest moment, he cupped her cheek. “Trust me?”
“I do.”
He tried—oh, how he tried—but Henry couldn’t discern a second’s hesitation in her reply.
Chapter 38
Ophelia
King’s End, Minnesota
Thursday, July 13
They don’t often come this way, and Ophelia wants to warn them that nothing good can come from this visit. Henry means well; she knows he does. Under ordinary circumstances, his suggestion would help Pansy immeasurably.
But these are no ordinary circumstances.
Ophelia doesn’t know if she can sense the storm or if it’s merely a matter of this loop, endless as it is, that she knows it’s coming. Is the anticipation in her mind, her memory, rather than the air? But pausing in the cemetery is the last thing these two should be doing.
Ever the gentleman, Henry unfurls his umbrella with a snap. The canopy flutters, his umbrella fairly bursting with pride at protecting that pink and white polka-dot one. The pulse it sends out is meant to repel Screamers rather than attract them. Henry has created an Enclave gravesite service in miniature.
Pansy kneels between graves, Rose’s light with fresh sod, Max’s a darker green of nearly two decades.
“They’re not really gone,” she says.
“They’re no longer here, either.” Henry cants the umbrella, blocking the sunlight, shielding Pansy from the growing heat of the day. “Your mother was wise when she told you to have a funeral. She knew you’d need to mourn.”
Not that Pansy has. Ophelia’s not certain she will. But Pansy shuts her eyes. When a single tear slips down her cheek, she doesn’t wipe it away.
The breeze picks up and batters Ophelia. She hovers near Henry because he’s so solid, so sure. In some ways, she is like Rose and Max. Not gone, but not here either. She is somewhere in between, and how do you mourn someone like that?
If you’re Henry Darnelle, you don’t. The sorrow is there, in the grooves around his mouth, in the way it flavors his words, cast shadows in his eyes. He doesn’t mourn, not like her mother does. Deep down, he believes that he can find a way to bring her back.
Even if Ophelia could tell him there is no way, she’s not sure she would. She sometimes thinks it’s his belief that keeps her—well, not grounded; there is no grounded—an active participant in these loops. Before all this, Ophelia would have said there were only so many times you could watch the world burn without tuning out, especially when you couldn’t do a damn thing to douse the fire.
But with this loop, this last loop, she wonders if she is actually helping, not hindering. She flits about Henry, projecting as much of herself into the air as she can.
I know you don’t want to rush her, but the sooner you leave, the better.
The urgency of her request evaporates like so much morning mist. Henry is implacable in his task. Beyond that, he’s adept at ignoring his little sister when his mood dictates. She casts her gaze toward Pansy.
Forgive me, she says to Henry, but you simply don’t listen.
