Page 55 of The Pansy Paradox
“You know what?” he says, and it’s almost like he’s consulting her. “I think I’ll make a glaze.”
Careful, brother mine. One of the ways to Pansy Little’s heart is definitely through her stomach.
Still, Henry loves to cook, always has, as far back as she can remember. It’s a true passion, if a bit performative. But he’ll have an appreciative audience in Pansy Little.
And Ophelia can’t wait.
He returns to the front room triumphant, first with the tea, then with the spread. Pansy’s eyes widen, her lips part, and Ophelia can tell the moment the aroma from the French toast hits her. Wariness wars with gratitude. She dips a finger in the glaze, brings it to her lips, and gratitude wins.
“I didn’t think I had syrup.”
“You didn’t. I merely whipped up a glaze.”
Pansy stares at him, expression bemused.
Yes. I know. He’s my brother, and I love him, but the man absolutely overachieves.
“It’s delicious. You really shouldn’t have.” She takes a bite, and the look of bliss belies her words. “But thank you, Agent Darnelle.”
Henry has pulled up a chair next to the coffee table. He pauses in slicing a piece of French toast. “Henry,” he says.
Pansy blinks in surprise.
“I think we can dispense with the formalities,” he continues. “I’m not here on official business.”
And you did spend half the morning in his lap.
“And you did spend half the morning in my lap.”
Yes! Ophelia raises her hands in the air and dances about the space. Henry never disappoints. There it is, the patented Darnelle deadpan delivery. Is he flirting, ladies? Or merely stating fact?
Pansy halts, fork halfway to her mouth, her eyes lit with curiosity. She’s waifish, sitting cross-legged on the sofa, hair still loose and spilling around her shoulders. Those thick, dark lashes flutter. Not a single hint of mascara, dammit. But then, Pansy is more than practical, and who on earth would bother with smoky eyes while defending King’s End from a horde of Screamers?
“All right, Henry.” His name emerges with a lilt. An invitation? No, not yet. Because Pansy is her mother’s daughter, and there are rules about men from the Enclave.
“You haven’t asked me about what I saw,” she says.
“It isn’t any of my business.”
Henry believes that with all his heart, with all his righteousness. He never once forced Ophelia to repeat what she saw—only if she wanted to, only if the confession would help lessen the Sight’s hold. As incapacitating as these episodes can be, they are, in their own perverse way, an extension of the Sight’s self-preservation instinct. This is something Ophelia knows far too well. After all, what could be worse than a Sight-induced coma?
The monster who put her into one.
“I think it might be your business,” Pansy says. “It took me to the past. I saw the funeral.”
“The funeral?” Henry’s fork lands hard on his plate. The sound clatters too loudly in the quiet space.
“Your father’s.”
Henry exhales, and Ophelia feels as if the wind’s been knocked from her. Her heart pounds, and she must be setting off all the monitors. In fact, she can feel the drag back to that bleak, sour reality, to the hospital bed in her shadowed room in Seattle.
Her greatest regret—other than not being able to save Henry in the end—is this. She was already comatose when Harrison Darnelle started hospice care. There was no comforting and supporting Henry then, no sitting at his side during the funeral, no fiercely protecting him from every last asshole in the Enclave and their so-called sympathy.
She left him alone. If things play out as it seems they must, she won’t have the chance to ask him for his forgiveness.
But Pansy seeing the funeral? Is this new, or has Ophelia simply not been paying attention like she should? It’s more fun to relish the sweet moments between these two opposites, who are, nevertheless, so well suited for each other.
The Sight attacks, and Henry swoops in like a knight in shining armor. Ophelia cheers on the sidelines while frantically trying to connect with Henry. She always hoped that, as siblings, she could connect, that sometimes she does, and it isn’t a cruel trick, it isn’t pattern recognition from those endless, endless loops. She wants to believe that his knowledge of the Sight, and of hers in particular, is the best chance of doing so. Their best chance of changing how things end.
