No, Henry’s in love. Deeply in love. The once-in-a-lifetime kind of love that says if you don’t grab it, you’ll live with nothing but regret. Along the way, she missed this. Blame the end of the world for that; everything came too fast, was too dire. She should’ve guessed. Henry never does things by half-measure.
But Ophelia has an ace up her own sleeve, one she plans to play on Pansy’s behalf.
A recent, albeit awkward, visit from her once presumptive sister-in-law. Yes, Gwyneth Worthington-Wells came around, carefully collecting data to support a hypothesis. But Ophelia has adopted Rose Little’s rule five. It’s a good one. It’s easy to bat away questions about what she saw during her Sight-induced coma. It’s not like those with the Sight routinely wake up from such things. In fact, Ophelia is the first on record.
Besides, Gwyneth wouldn’t like all of Ophelia’s answers, and Ophelia may have hinted as much.
Even so, before Gwyneth left that afternoon, she extended a peace offering along with the air hug and kiss, the words an aside, as if they held no importance at all. “I’ve submitted my own petition for annulment.”
Ophelia blinked, all big eyes and naiveté. “Can you convince Wendell to do the same?”
“We’ll see,” was all Gwyneth said, an implicit promise in her tone.
But all Ophelia heard was Rose Little’s rule four:
If the Enclave makes an offer, remember they always require something in return.
She will need to think about that. But later. Now, she has a mission.
“All right, then,” she says to Henry. “I see your point.”
The words catch his attention. He does not expect her to agree, never mind so readily.
“In fact, we should start planning. These things take time. Wait! I know! We can make it a double wedding!” Ophelia claps her hands together as if the idea of Wendell waiting at the end of the long walk down the aisle is her life’s dream. She even squeals, just a bit. “I want my colors to be sage green and glitter. Do you think Gwyneth will mind?”
“Glitter isn’t an actual color.”
“Of course it is.”
Henry rubs his temples. “I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work.”
“Then maybe this will. Gwyneth submitted her own petition for annulment.”
“How do you know that?”
“I hear things.” Her words come out light and musical.
He sags farther into the wingback chair, his posture slumped, defeated. And yet, almost absently, he runs that pink and white polka-dotted ribbon through his fingers. It’s a caress so soft, so tender, so intentional, that a blush heats Ophelia’s cheeks, and she has to glance away.
“Her parents will contest,” he says. “And her mother?—”
“Please. This is Gwyneth. She’s already thought of a way around that.”
“Gwyneth,” Henry murmurs, then shakes his head and releases another sigh, the sound full of exasperation. “What the hell are you up to now?”
She wants him to go back to King’s End.
This burst of Sight is so strong, so insistent, that Ophelia gasps. She sniffs, and her fingers come away with a hint of blood. Henry leans forward, a handkerchief in his hand and alarm in his eyes.
“Ophelia?”
She takes that unbearably soft handkerchief but brushes away his concern. “I’m okay.” She considers what this means and what she should do about it. “I want to meet Pansy.”
“She’s certain to travel to Seattle for advanced training sooner or later.”
“No. I want to go to King’s End and meet her there. I need her. And, Henry? I think you need her.”
Her brother doesn’t answer. Instead, he picks up a stack of official-looking paperwork full of numbers and mind-numbing small print.
