Chris approached the church steps, wondering if he needed to be avoiding walking into the crowds of people if this was all in his imagination. He walked along the pavement, looking down.
“Oh! I see it. There’s a number spray-painted in red on the ground.”
“Can you tell me what that number is?”
“It starts one-two-nine, but I can’t see the rest—There’s a group of tourists standing in the way.”
“Okay, let’s wait until they move away.”
The room was silent as Chris watched the group of men and women arguing over which way up their map should be held. Eventually a woman stormed off in anger past him, and the group she was with quickly ran off to catch up with her. Chris walked up to the pavement slab and looked down.
“One-two-nine . . . one-two-nine . . . two-zero-two-five,” he said slowly.
“Interesting, Christopher. Very interesting indeed,” said Miss Sonata, writing something down. “Okay, we’re done with that section. Well done. You can open your eyes.”
Chris had forgotten his eyes were closed. He opened them, and the image he had seen vanished.
Miss Sonata folded up the map and put it away.
“One last question. What animal am I thinking of?”
He barely looked at her before the image of an animal popped into his mind.
“A fox.”
Miss Sonata pursed her lips together in an effort to conceal a smile. “That’s right! Lucky guess?”
“Yeah. Lucky guess,” he said, smiling. He knew she would have said that no matter what animal he had picked.
“Well, we’re all done. Good job,” said Miss Sonata, packing away her folder.
“That’s it?” asked Chris, confused.
“Well, we’re all done with the interview. We’ll let you know how you did as soon as possible. But there is one more thing. I hope you don’t mind, but I had a chat with the school secretary earlier, and she explained that you might not be doing anything today. Anyway, I couldn’t come by without anything, so I hope you don’t mind if I invite myself to join you for a few minutes longer. . . .”
She opened her bag and carefully pulled out a white cardboard box. Chris watched curiously as she lifted the top flap, and he saw that inside was a perfect chocolate cake. She reached back into her bag and pulled out some paper plates and a blue-and-white-striped candle, which she pushed firmly down into the center of the thick brown icing.
“Happy birthday, Christopher,” said Miss Sonata, looking up at him.
Chris smiled awkwardly, not knowing what to say.
“I—how—I don’t know . . .”
Miss Sonata laughed.
“You can’t celebrate your twelfth birthday without a cake!”
“Thank you . . . I—”
“No need for thank-yous,” interrupted Miss Sonata cheerfully. “Help me carry this lot into the living room so we can celebrate.”
Chris picked up the plates and followed Miss Sonata out of the kitchen, a wide smile on his face—finally, today was feeling special for all the right reasons.
• CHAPTER SIX •
Friday, November 2
Ernest Genever had been looking for his twin brother for over an hour and had checked almost every one of the fifty or so rooms in the house, to no avail. All he wanted was some company, somebody to play with, but Mortimer was nowhere to be found. Frustrated, he made his way along the polished wooden floor of the west wing as quietly as possible, avoiding the gaze of the dour-faced subjects of the oil paintings that lined the walls, and stopped at the final room on the corridor. There was a gold plaque mounted on the heavy wooden door with the words WHITEHALL GUEST SUITE engraved on it. He turned the handle slowly and opened the door, wincing at the loud creak of the unoiled hinges—an automatic reaction he had to any loud noise that might disturb his mother. He paused nervously for a moment until he was certain that he had not been heard; then, with a quiet sigh of relief, he entered.
The curtains were open, and outside the sun was still shining brightly, yet the room felt dark and oppressive, like a rarely entered exhibit hall in a museum. Dark antique furniture crowded the room, each piece chosen for its grandeur and value rather than for its look. Ernest barely registered this, however; it looked exactly the same as every other one of the unused guest rooms of Darkwhisper Manor, the only home he had ever known.
“Mortimer,” he whispered, tiptoeing in slowly, “Mortimer, are you in here?”
As he walked around the room, checking in the wardrobes and under the four-poster bed, small clouds of dust scattered and shimmered in the stagnant air. There was no sign of his brother. Ernest stood up and wiped the dust from his trousers where he had been kneeling; then, resigned to the fact that he was just going to have to play on his own, he stepped back out into the corridor, quietly closed the guest room door behind him, and made his way to the playroom on the other side of the house.
“Ernest!”
Ernest jumped. He stopped dead on the landing and looked down to where his mother stood in the center of the marble foyer. Even looking down on her, he felt that she loomed tall, and her presence seemed to fill the enormous space below him. Dulcia Genever would have been beautiful if it weren’t for the icy shield that seemed to surround her and made people want to turn away and run. Her black hair, not a strand out of place, contrasted starkly with her blue white skin, so pale it seemed to glow. She always wore, as she did on this day, a long black evening dress and a necklace of brilliant diamonds that caught the light as she moved, sending spears of dazzling white about her. But the only thing that people noticed about Dulcia when they met her were her eyes, completely black, transfixing anybody who dared to look into them.
“What are you doing?” she asked, accusingly.
“I’m looking for Mort, Mother,” replied Ernest meekly. He averted his gaze from her piercing stare.
“I imagine Mortimer is practicing, as should you be. We have been waiting many years for this time, and you seem more concerned about playing.”
Ernest hung his head, ashamed.
“Do you love your mother, Ernest?” asked Dulcia coldly.
“Yes, Mother, of course,” replied Ernest. And he did. Ernest had only really known two people in his life—his mother and his brother—and it had never occurred to him to question his love for either of them. As much as his mother terrified him and as unkind as his brother could be, he was sure that this was because they wanted the best for him. Unfortunately, it seemed that no matter what he did or how hard he tried, he was a constant disappointment to them both.
“I see no proof of that when you choose to play instead of work to help me. Your brother performed admirably against Cecil Humphries, and he will need you to help him soon. You don’t want to let your brother down, do you?”
“No, Mother.”
“Well, then, go and study.”
“Yes, Mother,” said Ernest, and walked quickly away.
In spite of its name, the playroom was no more entertaining a place to be in than any of the other rooms of the manor. It was in fact a classroom, for the most part, and unnecessarily large, given that only two pupils had ever been taught in it. Ernest made his way toward the far end of the room, where two wooden desks faced an enormous blackboard, upon which his mother had written their homework for the day:
Read “The Theory of Telekinesis” by Boris Karparov
Test tomorrow at 9 am.
You will need to be able to move an object from one end of the room to the other.
Ernest sighed. He walked over to his desk and picked up the book waiting for him. The faded red cover was plain except for the gold-embossed title. He opened it up and flicked quickly through the yellowed pages to the back. In total there were four hundred fifty-seven pages, which he estimated would take him about twenty minutes to finish, about twice the time it took his brother. He slid onto the bench attached to his desk and began to read the introduction:
Telekinesis, from the G
reek meaning “distant movement,” refers to the manipulation and movement of objects using the mind, and . . .
Ernest scanned the rest of the page, then turned it and stared at the next one for a few seconds before turning the page once more. He continued to turn the pages every few seconds and had committed about two thirds of the book to memory when he heard the door open behind him. He turned his head quickly.
“Mort! I was looking for you,” said Ernest, as his brother walked into the room carrying a small, plain cardboard box.
“I had better things to do than to play with you,” said Mortimer matter-of-factly.
“Oh. Sure,” said Ernest, trying to hide his hurt. “What’s in the box?”
“Actually, Ernest, I’ve got you a present,” said Mortimer, smiling.
Ernest stood up. He looked at his brother in disbelief.
“Well, don’t look so surprised, stupid—you are my twin brother,” said Mortimer, placing the box on Ernest’s desk and opening up the top flaps.
“I know, but you don’t normally—oh . . .”
Ernest looked up at his brother in amazement. Mortimer said nothing, watching as Ernest placed his hands inside the box and carefully lifted out the fluffy gray kitten. The kitten blinked a few times and looked up at him curiously; then, satisfied that he was safe, it curled up and closed its eyes.
“Ahh. He’s lovely. I can’t believe it. Thank you, Mort.” Ernest hesitated. “Does Mother know?”
“Yes, I checked with her first. Right, are you ready to get on with our work?”
“Work?” said Ernest distractedly, rubbing his finger under the purring kitten’s chin.
“Yes, Ernest. That’s why I got the kitten.”
Confused, Ernest looked up at Mortimer and saw an evil smile, a smile that he saw too often, spread across his brother’s face.
“Oh, no, Mort. What are you going to do?”
Mortimer looked over at the blackboard, and Ernest followed his gaze.
“I would say that a kitten is an object, wouldn’t you, Ernest?”
“I don’t think that’s what Mother meant, Mort,” said Ernest, panicking.
“It’s open to interpretation, Ernest,” said Mortimer, grabbing the kitten from his brother’s hands.
The kitten looked up, surprised. Its little legs hung limply from Mortimer’s hands.
“You always get so. . . . emotional,” said Mortimer mockingly, as he placed the kitten on the floor. The kitten looked around and then stretched lazily, ignorant of the danger it was in.
“Mort, please don’t,” pleaded Ernest, but Mortimer paid no attention. Ernest watched as his brother’s eyes glazed over and stared at the kitten.
Whoosh. Ernest watched, horrified, as the kitten began to slide suddenly across the wooden floor.
“Nooooo!” cried Ernest as he watched the confused kitten build up speed, its legs desperately scrambling around for some way to stop. Ernest covered his eyes with his hands as the kitten smacked into the wall. Thump.
An agonizing silence followed. Ernest stood frozen on the spot in horror, unable to look up.
Meeeeeeow.
Ernest slowly dropped his hands and looked up to see the kitten shaken and disoriented but still alive and seemingly unhurt. It raised itself up on his four paws and tried to walk, but wobbled and dropped back down again.
Mortimer exploded into laughter. Ernest looked at him, horrified, as Mortimer struggled to get his breath back, but every time he tried to compose himself, he dissolved into fits of laughter again.
Ernest said nothing and walked over to the kitten. He sat down on the floor and placed the kitten on his lap and stroked it gently until he felt it begin to calm. After a few minutes, his brother’s laughing died down. He heard his footsteps as he approached.
“Your turn, Ernest.”
Ernest looked up at his brother but didn’t reply. He wondered how somebody could look so like him and yet be so different. For a brief moment he felt a surge of hatred rise up through him, so unfamiliar that it took him by surprise.
“No.”
“What?” asked Mortimer, shocked.
“No, Mort, I won’t do it. It’s cruel,” said Ernest, with a resolve he had never shown in all of his twelve years.
“How dare you question me, Ernest. Do it now.”
“No, Mort. I’m not going to hurt him. We can practice without using a kitten.”
Mortimer said nothing as he considered this turn of events, while Ernest pretended to ignore him and stroked the kitten.
“Ernest?”
Ernest looked up. “Yes?”
“If you don’t do it . . . I’ll kill it. You know that my Ability is stronger than yours. If you don’t do what I did, I’ll make sure the kitten hits every one of these four walls before I throw it out of the window.”
Ernest’s eyes filled with tears. “Why, Mort? Why do you want me to do it?”
Mortimer shrugged.
“Because it’s funny. And Mother thinks you need to learn to be tougher.”
“Mother knows?”
“Of course. I told her that I think you aren’t strong enough for the work we have to do, and she agreed. Now. Are you going to do it or not?”
Ernest hesitated.
“Ernest. You are my twin brother, and we both have the same purpose in life. I want only what’s best for you. You know that.”
Ernest thought for a moment; then, with a look of defeat, he lifted the kitten from his lap and placed it on the floor next to him. Mortimer smiled. Ernest stood up; then, looking down, he let his eyes glaze over. The kitten began to move slowly.
“Faster, Ernest.”
Ernest furrowed his brow in concentration, and the kitten picked up pace.
Mortimer began to laugh.
“Yeah, Ernest! Go, kitten, go!”
The kitten sped past the desks and bookshelves and was almost at the wall when it stopped suddenly, just next to the doorway.
Mortimer looked over at Ernest, who was already running toward the door. He watched as his brother scooped up the kitten in his arms and ran out, without turning back.
“Coward!” shouted Mortimer.
Ernest ran back along the corridor, down the steps two at a time, out the front door, and across the manicured lawns into the forest, while his brother watched him from the playroom window. Ernest didn’t look back.
• • •
That evening, a few miles down the road from Darkwhisper Manor, a young family played delightedly with the new kitten that had appeared on their doorstep earlier in the day. Ernest watched them in his mind, a new trick he had only recently learned, and the relief of seeing the kitten happily chasing a piece of wool distracted him from the evil looks his brother was shooting him across the dinner table.
“Ernest!” His mother’s sharp voice brought him back suddenly into the dining room.
“Sorry, Mother,” said Ernest.
“I said I want you both to clear up the plates, then go upstairs and get ready for bed. I’ll be up for your bedtime story in half an hour.”
“Yes, Mother,” said Ernest obediently, standing up.
Plates washed and teeth brushed, Ernest changed into his pajamas and got into bed. He turned to Mortimer, who was already under the covers of the bed beside him.
“I’m sorry, Mort. I just didn’t want to hurt the kitten,” said Ernest, the anger of earlier forgotten.
“Well, don’t do it again, Ernest. We have to work together.”
“I know,” said Ernest.
“Maybe you’re not as much of a wimp as I thought,” said Mortimer.
Ernest smiled to himself, knowing that this was as close to an apology as his brother would ever offer him. He rolled onto his back, pulled the sheets up to his neck, and waited for the familiar sound of his mother’s heels approaching.
The boys turned to see the silhouette of their mother standing in the doorway. She walked slowly to the antique cream-leather armchair between their beds a
nd carefully arranged the skirt of her dress before sitting down.
“I heard there was some resistance to our work today,” said Dulcia, her voice soft yet empty of any emotion.
Ernest looked across at his brother, horrified. Mortimer looked back and shrugged smugly.
“Ernest,” said Dulcia, looking straight ahead, “I am concerned.”
There was a pause, which Ernest chose not to break, certain that whatever he said would only serve to make the situation worse.
“Seven years ago, I chose the two of you to bring home from the orphanage, and since that time, have you ever wanted for anything?”
“No, Mother,” answered the boys in unison.
“Have I not treated you both as my own flesh and blood?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“And now I ask a simple favor: one year of your life dedicated to the repayment of my kindness. In return you will live a comfortable and wealthy life, and all of this”—she motioned around her—“will be yours. Tell me, Ernest, is that too much to ask of you?”
Ernest shook his head.
“Do you want to go back to the orphanage? Without your brother? I waited a very long time for twins to be given up so that I would have two children to teach the Ability to at the same time, but if you do not feel that you can cope, then I am certain your brother will manage without you.”
Ernest felt tears form and wiped them away with the back of his hand.
“No, Mother. Please don’t send me back. I’ll be good.”
Dulcia nodded, satisfied.
“The kitten may have seemed harmless, but what I am asking of the both of you requires resolve far greater than giving a kitten a few bruises. If you couldn’t manage that simple task, how will I know to trust you to be able to look a person in the eyes and destroy them forever?”
Ernest sat up suddenly.
“But that’s different, Mother. Those people hurt you. They are bad people.”
Dulcia gave a rare smile.
“Well, that’s true. Nevertheless, I need you to be strong in mind. I need you to do as your brother tells you, because we don’t know what is going to happen, and it won’t always be as easy as it was with Cecil Humphries. Your brother’s Ability is stronger than yours, and I need you to trust him. Do you trust him?”
The Ability (Ability, The) Page 5