Page 143 of The Pansy Paradox
He powered down Pansy’s phone to conserve the battery and then picked up his own.
“Circuit three of the showcase home in Camelot Lots. According to my watch, it’s 5:30 a.m., but I don’t trust that it’s accurate.” He couldn’t say why, exactly. Perhaps it was the quality of light, relentless in its sameness. No hint of sunrise or the sky changing color. Assuming, of course, there was a sky somewhere beyond those skylights.
He filmed as best he could, lighting the space with a flashlight. Tucked on the other side of that sweeping staircase was a room meant as a study or den, snug with a stone fireplace and built-in bookcases.
It wasn’t a true replica of his father’s study in Seattle, but certainly, it could be shaped into something just as satisfying. Henry stepped into the room, where a whiff of wood smoke suggested a recent fire in the hearth. Comfortable wingback chairs flanked the fireside, ready for an evening of excellent scotch and absorbing reading. The shelves were filled with a rather extensive, and impressive, book collection. Perhaps he’d relight the fire, pull a volume from the shelf, and…
Henry froze, his fingers gripping the phone until they ached. Slowly, very slowly, he panned the room, filming every last corner. Then he stopped the recording and scrolled back to the first video he’d made.
Jesus. He slumped against the doorframe. Hours ago, this room had been bare. The bookshelves held nothing but dust, and there were no furnishings save for a desk and chair at the far end. No wingback chairs. No thick Persian carpet on the floor. No tufted sofa where, he was convinced, Pansy napped on a regular basis.
The seduction wasn’t all in his mind, then. The house was changing around him. Changing for him? Well, he had accused it of having zero personality. Perhaps it had taken offense. Perhaps it was out to prove something.
Perhaps he shouldn’t think of it as sentient.
Henry started the recording again, aiming the flashlight as best he could. When Pansy woke, he’d get her opinion. But to do that, he needed evidence. He didn’t trust his eyes, or his mind, enough to discern what was real and what wasn’t. He navigated the room with an ever-present fear that the camera was picking up nothing but shapeless lumps and cardboard props, a Potemkin village of a house.
“If only I had more light.”
In the corner, on the desk, a lamp flickered on.
Oh, no. No, no, no. Henry shook his head. This couldn’t be happening. He slapped the switch on the wall, and the overheads blared on. He winced and turned them off again. Without recourse, he continued the circuit of the house, recording everything, light switches responding to his touch.
Upstairs, the master bedroom had changed drastically into something less suggestive and far cozier, the comforter the first victim. A dismissive: “Satin? Really?” had done it. Henry remained rooted at the threshold, watching the new spread change before his eyes. Goose down? Absolutely. Yes, that was more like it.
The lamp on the nightstand produced enough glow that he could read aloud to Pansy before bed. Unquestionably, Henry did read to her. See? Among the books on the nightstand was a thick tome with a fabric bookmark, complete with a tassel.
“Now, that’s an appropriate use for satin.”
The moment the words had left his mouth, Henry stumbled backward into a chair—one that hadn’t been there moments before—and sat down hard. His chest was tight, his breath shallow. He had never read to Pansy in the evenings because they weren’t married, and that certainly wasn’t their marital bed.
Don’t be daft, man. Of course you’re married. You fell hard during her field agent examination, about the time she stole your umbrella. One of those irrevocable moments that changes everything. Naturally, you were a gentleman, taking an assignment in Minneapolis and striking up a true friendship. Nothing inappropriate about that. You wouldn’t be the first field agent to…
“Stop!”
The nattering in his head subsided even as the room around him continued to change, auditioning items for his approval. An elaborate dressing table appeared, glimmering with silver brush and mirror set, lined with perfume bottles, and trimmed with a ruffled skirt.
Henry gave it a dismissive glance and muttered, “I doubt Pansy’s the vanity type.”
In its place, a stand appeared with an old-fashioned shaving kit, complete with a stainless steel bowl and badger hair shave brush.
“Well, yes. We know who the vain one is in this relationship.”
There is no relationship, Henry. You’re trapped in the housing development. Focus.
He stopped filming and tucked his phone away. Pansy would see the evidence herself once she woke up. She would wake up, right? Some tea, perhaps. He had bottled water and tea bags tucked in his field pack. Since the electricity was on, he could boil some water.
Tea. Yes. It would do them both good. Wake Pansy and clear all the cobwebs from his head. Tea was just the thing.
From the floor below came the whistle of a kettle, more cheerful than jarring. Henry rushed down the steps. True, he planned on waking Pansy, but not like this. A tray full of snacks and some perfectly steeped brew. Now, that was the proper way to rouse your wife.
The kitchen greeted his arrival, full of gleaming copper pots and pans along with bunches of herbs hanging from racks, each tied with a colorful ribbon. He eased the kettle from the burner and started in on the food. Before heading into the living area, Henry paused and glanced around, his chest swelling with pleasure.
Yes, this truly was the most perfect kitchen.
Chapter 61
Pansy
