Page 191 of The Pansy Paradox
The logistics of this make my mind spin. When did he find the time for such a perfect gift? How did he ship it here so quickly? That alone must have cost more than the necklace itself, which I suspect was a sizable amount.
I open the envelope, hoping for an explanation, for something more.
Tucked in the envelope is a card, the stock rich and creamy. No greeting. No signature. Just one simple line in elegant script:
And though she be but little, she is fierce.
The only other item is a pink and white polka-dotted ribbon, the one I most definitely lost on the green, considering the telltale grass stains.
I shake my head as if I can shake away the thickness building in my throat, soggy and full of salt. No, no, no. I know what that ribbon means and why he returned it to me. I can almost hear those exact and utterly correct words.
This is yours. I have no right to it. I have no right to you.
Yes, I know what the end of a relationship feels like. This time, I refuse.
For all the good it will do me.
Maybe it’s the Sight, rousing itself to offer up a tidbit. Maybe it’s merely a memory. I secure the pendant around my neck and then head upstairs.
My closet is still a jumble of files and spilled photographs. Tomorrow, I vow, I will clean. I will sort all these papers and place my mother’s umbrella back into the stand. But now, I’m pawing through the mess. Of everything here, I’m certain Gwyneth Worthington-Wells found nothing interesting about this particular piece of paper.
I find it carelessly shoved to one side, along with my birth certificate. Yes, this will do nicely.
After all, Henry Darnelle isn’t the only one who can quote Shakespeare.
Chapter 92
Ophelia
Seattle, Washington
Monday, July 31
“What are you doing here?” Ophelia asks her brother.
Two weeks have passed since she broke free of her Sight-induced coma. Two weeks in which Henry has barely left her side except to dart home to shower and change clothes. She’s tried to tell him it’s unnecessary, that while the Sight hasn’t exactly abandoned her, she’s picked up a thing or two through that endless loop.
True, she lacks Pansy’s knack for locking down the Sight completely, but watching her do so—over and over and over again—has rubbed off on Ophelia. Who says you can’t learn by osmosis?
She’s still confined to the hospital bed. She needs the handrails, the bed’s ability to move up and down. A walker has replaced the IV stand and the other equipment that crowded the room. Her physical therapist assures her that in the next few weeks, she’ll graduate to a big-girl bed. (Ophelia’s words, not the therapist’s; her therapist is far too kind for that.)
Henry plops down in the wingback chair he lugged to her bedroom on his first day back. At his feet? Today, it’s a plastic milk crate stuffed full of files and correspondence, a few thick packages spilling over the sides.
“I’m tackling the estate and trust paperwork these next few days,” he says. Really, the man looks gleeful at the prospect, but then he sobers. “And I really should acknowledge all the condolences. It’s not too late for that, is it?”
He’s asking her, the irresponsible one? Ophelia wants to tell him that after his helping to save the world, all can be forgiven, even belated thank-you notes.
But he hasn’t answered her actual question, and he won’t. Henry’s avoided the subject of King’s End, of what happened there, of one of its residents in particular. And, certainly, Ophelia hasn’t confessed all. She can’t mortify Henry like that. She can’t risk anyone overhearing those conversations, either. The Enclave’s reach is still long and grasping. She needs to keep the strength of her Sight a secret. That goes for Pansy’s, too.
“Estate work first, I think. I had Cam sort everything by category, and I’m sure the lawyers and accountants would appreciate?—”
She points to a package wedged between bundles of bound mail. “Actually, you should open that one.”
“I…” Henry glances down and pries the package from the others. “I should?” Then his gaze lights on the return address. He places a palm over it, as if that can negate everything. “No. She didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?” Ophelia asks, feigning innocence.
He sighs. “I sent her a birthday gift.”
