The public shaming is thorough and ruthless. It’s far easier to blame the messenger, the one who exposes the corrupt underbelly, than it is to take responsibility. And, of course, no one does. Ophelia won’t touch those particular images unless the Sight insists. It wavers because Henry still wavers.
They try to take all of Henry’s assets, including the house, but Harry Darnelle ensured that this would be impossible, as if he knew that the Enclave would come for his son. But even he isn’t—wasn’t—strong enough to keep them from revoking Henry’s umbrella.
In any other excommunication, they’d turn him out at this point, cut him loose to survive on his own. But Henry is still useful in the same way Pansy Little is useful. And so, he returns to King’s End, this time under guard.
In those scenarios, the end is always quick and brutal. Ophelia wonders why blood delights the Enclave so.
But if Henry leaves now, if he returns to King’s End of his own volition? The end doesn’t change. At least, the Sight has never shown her a scenario where there isn’t blood. But Henry is glorious. And if the world must end, let it be with Henry fighting to the last.
A rustling reaches her, the soft hush of an umbrella. Not her own. She has no idea where they’ve stashed her umbrella. But Henry’s is here, in the room. In her mind’s eye, she senses the jade handle resting lightly against his thigh, a faithful dog come to heel.
He brought it with him instead of leaving it in the stand near the front door. She’s positive the Sight has never shown her this before. It’s such a small thing, but she grasps on to it. Ophelia knows outcomes often rely more on the small gestures than the grand ones.
All for the want of a nail—or an umbrella.
And then she tries something else. She lets her concentration slip from Henry. No use in pretending he can hear her. But his umbrella?
So, she thinks. Not about impending doom. Not about how Henry needs to leave. Not about anything other than how sad her umbrella must be because it can’t see Henry’s.
Henry clears his throat, a half cough, half chuckle. “What?” he says, and Ophelia knows he isn’t speaking to her. It’s his umbrella voice, a bit indulgent, like he’s speaking to a favorite pet. The Enclave claims these communications with umbrellas are pure anthropomorphism.
Ophelia knows that, as with other things, the Enclave is full of pure shit.
“Well, where has she gone?”
Henry’s quiet footfalls fill the room. He does a circuit before kneeling next to the bed.
“Why have they taken your umbrella?”
Why, indeed.
“I’m going to go look for her,” he adds. “She can’t be far.”
The moments tick past, her mind clocking each one. Henry’s gone for a very long time. She knows he hasn’t forgotten her or become sidetracked. Only a catastrophe would keep him from returning. But the Sight, in its perverseness, won’t show her a thing.
At last, his footfalls sound in the hallway, barely there, without a creak to any of the floorboards. He enters the room, and the rush of joy sends her heart fluttering. She tries to calm her pulse immediately so the abnormal readings won’t alert the night nurse.
But she’s here! Her umbrella! Her lovely, lovely sage green and glitter umbrella. Henry tucks it next to her, and its presence soothes the ragged edges of her mind. With it here, next to her, she’s a more complete version of herself. And if she isn’t actually more capable, Ophelia will bask in the feeling that she is.
She can hear Henry do another circuit around her room, footsteps light and considered. He won’t be the one to wake the night nurse. No doubt he is in his thinking pose, hands behind his back, a frown crinkling his brow.
“We’ll have to find a place for you. Not the bed.”
No, unfortunately not. It’s a hospital bed with all the latest technology. There’s no place to hide her umbrella where it wouldn’t be discovered or, worse, mangled.
“But not too far away.”
Ophelia struggles to picture her room. They’ve rolled up the thick Turkish carpets and removed the canopy bed, swapping it out for the contraption with all its whirring and elevations, the monitors, the IV stand, and what must be a mountain of ready supplies. Even with the Egyptian cotton sheets, down pillows, and velvet quilt, the bed is still, at heart, a mechanical thing. She doesn’t despise it; that would do her no good. But she certainly doesn’t love it.
“The doll house?”
Some children might have little more than a box with dividers. Others might own a Barbie dream house. Ophelia has a custom-made, four-story monstrosity that accommodates her American Girl dolls. All of them.
Never mind that she’s an adult, a certified field agent, or was. Ophelia supposes now she’s simply a burden. Despite everything, the doll house remains in her room, and she doesn’t need the Sight to taste her mother’s yearning for grandchildren. Whether from her or Henry, it hardly matters. So here the doll house will remain, a beacon of hope.
“Yes. The doll house. I’ll tuck it in back, where no one will see it.”
In his voice, there’s the staunch belief that she hears him, that she might wake, stumble from bed, and unearth her umbrella from its hiding spot. Reverently, Henry eases the umbrella from her side. He tucks it away with whispered reassurances. Then he returns to her.
