Page 137 of The Pansy Paradox
His fingers go in search of another leaf, but Ophelia suspects it’s more of an excuse to run his fingers through Pansy’s hair.
“It’s interesting how people talk around the injured and the sick,” he adds, voice contemplative, “as if they were insensible.”
“I was never sure how much my mother could hear or understand near the end. I just assumed she could. Or maybe I just hoped that.”
“Hm. People speak around Ophelia as if she’s no longer”—Henry breaks off and coughs—“conscious. In a physical coma, I suppose she wouldn’t be. But there are times when I’m certain she’s here.”
Pansy scans the area, her gaze not quite meeting Ophelia’s, even though Ophelia is mere inches away, as if this was some sort of group hug. Perhaps, at the moment, she’s too insubstantial to create a connection. Her pulse is thready. In the background, a beep, beep, beep nags at her.
“It’s like those phantom voices. You hear someone call your name, but no one’s around. Or a parent and a baby’s cry.” Henry sighs. “I also suppose I could chalk that up to wishful thinking, or perhaps trauma.”
Pansy shakes her head. “No. I think she’s really here, at least some of the time.” She places a hand on his chest, over his heart. “And I think you have a version of the Sight.”
Henry scoffs at this. “We need to get moving.”
Yes, they do. With the task force hovering so close, this is no time for heartfelt discussions. But Pansy is on to something. Ophelia swirls around them as they begin a zigzag approach toward the housing development. Really, how does Henry know where all the cameras are, which security lights will flicker on, and what path will keep them hidden? Yes, his skill as a field agent is on display. But there’s more to it than that.
Maybe you do have the Sight, brother mine.
“Why couldn’t you have a version of the Sight?” Pansy echoes, and Ophelia laughs with delight.
“I failed all those tests.”
“Maybe the Enclave gives the wrong sorts of tests. How is it you’re still alive, especially after the Sahara?”
The question brings Ophelia up short. How has Henry managed to stay alive all these years? The Enclave never places its most talented field agents in reserve. They throw them at the fissures and the Screamers over and over again until either their minds or bodies break, and they gratefully accept a position at headquarters. Or the other option: the toxins, a nasty hit, or one of those fissures that decides it needs a meal—or the agents themselves succumbing to the thrall of all that.
“I’ve been extremely lucky.”
Pansy gives her head a vigorous shake. “It’s more than that. But the Enclave doesn’t care about their field agents. I wish I didn’t have the Sight. Most of the time, it hurts more than it helps.” She pauses to pull in a breath. “Except for maybe earthquakes. That would come in handy.”
Henry’s laugh is quiet. “Yes, knowing about earthquakes would be beneficial. But even then?—”
“They’re not a hundred percent predictable.”
Pansy halts, and Ophelia recognizes the stubborn tilt of her chin. “No one, and I include my mother in this, has ever been able to connect with my Sight the way you do.”
Henry spares her a look before moving forward again. “I’ve had lots of practice.”
“Part of it is skill, but a large part is intuition.”
“That simply isn’t?—”
“Logical?” Pansy jogs the few steps between them and reaches his side again. “Whoever said the Sight was logical?”
Henry inclines his head. “I’ll give your theory its due consideration.”
Now Ophelia snorts so loudly that Pansy glances her way.
Yes, children, summer’s over, and school is now in session. And oh, look, here’s your instructor, Principal Field Agent Henry Darnelle.
Ophelia can’t help it; she snorts again. Her brother, painfully predictable, unlike those earthquakes.
Pansy and Henry leave the sidewalk behind, along with the crickets that have serenaded their trek. Henry steers them to the weedy edge of the gravel road, where their shoes will leave less of an impression. They walk silently now, single file. Neither speaks until they reach the entrance to Camelot Lots.
The development appears so benign in the dark. The houses are little more than outlines, suggesting cozy abodes and suburban splendor rather than decaying dreams. This far from the center of King’s End, light pollution isn’t an issue, and the stars emerge brighter in the night sky. It’s enough to steal your breath. Ophelia tips her head back and marvels at the view.
“You could almost see the appeal,” Henry says.
