Page 132 of The Pansy Paradox
Yes, Ophelia thinks, it’s always ironic to drug your best friend.
“I’ve simply doubled it,” Mort adds. “She’ll actually wake up stronger.”
“That could be a problem.”
“Not with the task force in place. Besides, she can’t be incapacitated. Botten was clear about that. If Henry’s barely conscious and Pansy’s sound asleep, all we need to do is wait. Once they’re both ready, we let Botten know, and he’ll give the command to move.”
“Can they really deploy and be operational in eight hours?”
“Heads will roll if they can’t.” Mort chases the pasta around in the pot before setting the strainer in the sink. From all appearances, he seems more concerned about the noodles than the particulars of this conversation.
Gwyneth watches him, ever the scientist, evaluating these simple, domestic tasks. “Do you worry about what’s going to happen?”
Ophelia leans forward. Behind her, she feels Henry do the same. In her times through this loop, she’s never heard this exchange, never known what Botten has said to all the others. She imagines he has spun all manner of fairy tales, depending on the audience. Once upon a time, she believed one herself. But this is not a story with a happily ever after.
“No,” Mort says, and his tone is strident. “We know this isn’t their fault. This is all on Rose and Darnelle, Sr. That’s why Botten sent us and not the usual sycophantic, ass-kissing suspects.” He stirs the pasta again, water splattering. “Things could get rough. That’s the nature of this job, but Henry and Pansy will be fine. Absolutely.” And now Mort sounds like he needs to convince himself along with Gwyneth.
All Ophelia has now are her memories of all the outcomes the Sight has shown her. It stubbornly refuses to reveal this particular future, even for mere seconds. It’s unsettling not to have those threads to grasp on to, and her heart flutters again in near panic. At any moment, Mort or Gwyneth might decide to use the powder room tucked beneath the staircase and catch Henry hovering in the dark hallway.
And then? She can’t see that. But she knows all too well Botten’s anger, his aim in all this, not that he’s actually planning on ending the world. That’s merely an unintentional consequence. She doesn’t know what it is that Rose Little and Harry Darnelle supposedly did, only that Botten had a hand in it; only that of the three, he is the most culpable.
Ophelia knows when the end comes, it’s always drenched in blood, and the chain reaction can’t be stopped, not by the military, not by governments banding together, and certainly not by the Enclave.
“Botten is only setting things right, making them better.” Mort dumps the rigatoni into the strainer, and steam mists the window above the sink. “What if we didn’t have to live like this anymore? What if no one did? No hunger, no disease. Wouldn’t that be something?”
“No betrothals?” Gwyneth adds, eyebrow arched.
“Oh, that too.” A smile blooms across Mort’s face, one filled with so much hope and so much love.
Ophelia shuts her eyes, because she can’t bear the desire she sees there. She knows how this dream dies, too, and it isn’t pretty or pleasant or peaceful. She can almost taste Mortimer’s betrayal and subsequent remorse.
The clatter of silverware pulls her from these thoughts. On a tray, Mort has arranged a plate with pasta, a salad, a roll and butter, the crème brûlée, and, of course, the pot of tea.
“You want to take care of our patient?” He hefts the tray. “I’ll head upstairs.”
Ophelia flings herself from the table. Her fear is so strong, she could almost fly. All her willpower is focused on a single word:
Run!
She beats Mortimer to the hallway by mere seconds. He’s cleared the space before Ophelia realizes Henry is no longer tucked into the shadows. Only when Mort’s heavy tread pounds on the staircase does the powder room door creak open.
Her brother. Her daring, dashing, foolish brother slips down the hall and into the office. Ophelia tries to run interference, but Gwyneth merely steps through her, pauses for a moment, shudders, and then marches on.
In the office, on the sofa, Henry is silent and pale. He blinks groggily at Gwyneth and gives her a sleepy smile. He looks like a little boy, home sick from school. He accepts the tray and Gwyneth’s fussing with a display worthy of an Oscar.
Miffed, Ophelia settles on the coffee table and shoots scowls at the woman who would be Dr. Gwyneth Worthington-Wells-Darnelle. (Yes, that’s a side shoot the Sight has shown her. Yes, it’s completely disturbing. And yes, it ends exactly how one might imagine.)
Don’t believe what you’ve heard. You won’t be fine. They are going to kill you and Pansy.
Ophelia still wishes she knew why. But maybe the why doesn’t matter. She watches, unsure which Henry is the real one. This sickly patient? Or the man sliding soundlessly through the house?
It’s only when she’s certain he isn’t feigning this malaise and only when Gwyneth’s back is turned that Henry’s gaze zeroes in on her spot on the coffee table. And maybe she imagines it; maybe it’s wishful thinking.
But really, did her brother just wink at her?
Chapter 55
Pansy
