by Teri Brown
Jacques clears his throat. “Your mother and I were very worried about you.”
I want to laugh but am too busy eating. Chicken salad on rye never tasted so good.
“How did the show go?” I ask with my mouth full.
“Perfect, darling, absolutely perfect.”
Mother pours two glasses of gin and hands one to Jacques.
“I’ll admit, it turned out much better than I thought it would. It was touch and go there for a bit,” Jacques says.
“I knew he’d be fine.” The words drop out of Mother’s mouth like smug little pebbles.
I glance up, suspicious. Her eyes are bright. She’s dying to tell me something but doesn’t want to be too obvious about it. My heart sinks and I hobble over and toss the rest of my sandwich in the garbage. I’m not hungry anymore.
I turn to face Jacques and my mother. “Who would be fine?” I keep the tone of my voice even. Besides watch your back, the number one rule of living with my mother is don’t let her know she’s hurt you.
“Owen!” Mother bursts out, unable to hold back any longer.
“Owen?” I fumble for my chair and sit with a thud.
“Did someone say my name in vain?” The person in question calls and I hear the slam of the door behind him.
“There’s my girl!”
He falls down on his knees in front of me and holds out a rose. “I would have been here sooner, but I didn’t want to show up empty-handed. Not after I let them take you like that.”
He lays his head in my lap, still holding up the rose. “I will never be able to forgive myself, but I dare to hope that you will, one day, forgive me. . . .”
For a second, I’m speechless, but then I take the rose and rap him on the head with my knuckles. “There’s nothing to forgive, you goose. It happened so fast . . .” I swallow hard and shove the memory from my mind. “Now, get up. This is ridiculous.”
“Thank you,” he says, popping up like a jack-in-the-box. “My knees were killing me.”
I start to roll my eyes but then catch sight of the bruise he has along his jaw and cheekbone. “Oh, my God, are you okay?” I reach out to touch his face but then pull my hand back, embarrassed.
“I’m fine. It’s you I was worried about. I also brought your purse. You dropped it when you were taken.”
I take the purse gratefully. I would have hated to lose my knife. I need it more than ever.
“Shall we move this conversation into the sitting room?” Mother is still gloating.
Owen takes my arm and helps me down the hall, but my toe feels better, and I feel stupid with a towel wrapped around my foot. Owen’s excitement sticks out all over him.
“So you took my place in the show?” I ask, sinking gratefully into the closest chair.
Jacques snorts. “Hardly.”
Hurt passes over Owens face before it clears and I frown at Jacques.
“Well, no one can take your place,” Owen says. “I just filled in.”
“You did a wonderful job,” my mother says, smiling at me. “Simply wonderful.”
The mistress of games is letting me know how easily I can be replaced. She’s trying to make me jealous. It works.
But I’ll be damned if I let her see that.
I turn to Owen and give him a smile so bright, he blinks. “Did you enjoy it?”
“It was amazing! The people, the lights, the applause. I’ve never felt anything like it.”
“Don’t get too used to it. The show needs Anna’s talents,” Jacques says firmly.
Surprised, I throw Jacques an appreciative glance while my mother’s smile becomes fixed.
She busies herself by grabbing a throw and tucking it in around my legs. “Yes, of course, but it’s nice to know we have a replacement. Just in case it’s ever needed.”
Her dark eyes bore into mine, giving lie to the smile still curving her mouth. She looks so different from the mother who brushed my hair this morning that I look away, my heart aching.
Before she can move, I tentatively brush her hand with my fingers. My mother’s emotions have always been easy to read, but I learned early on to ignore them whenever possible. A child only wants to know so much about her mother’s resentment toward her. Today her emotions are so mixed that I have trouble separating them out. I’m gratified to find love among the usual mix of resentment, impatience, and single-minded desire, but I’m also picking up fear. Trying to figure out what my mother is afraid of is like trying to read a set of tarot cards. I know it’s connected to me, but is she afraid for me or of me?
I can’t tell. But one thing is certain. She wants me out of the show.
Twenty-one
I punch my pillow for the hundredth time. If it were a person it would be dead by now. How dare she? I’ve been more of a mother than she has. I’ve done the shopping, made the travel arrangements, found us employment, and cheated people—all in my mother’s service.
I punch the pillow again, thinking of all the snooping I’ve done, looking for information on clients she wanted to shill. The menial jobs I’ve taken so we could eat. And all I’ve asked for in return is the opportunity to perform my magic.
Now she wants to take that away from me.
But why? What does she have to gain? And what would I do if I couldn’t do the show anymore?
I feel tears and furiously wipe them away. Why am I so surprised? I have been afraid of this forever. It’s my darkest fear come to life. No. I take a deep breath. My darkest fear was that my mother would abandon me in some cheap hotel room. At least she didn’t do that.
I’m angry and scared and mixed up. The story of my relationship with my mother. When I think of how much worrying I have done the past few weeks, the lengths I’ve gone to make sure she was safe . . .
I shut my eyes, but they pop open again, reminding me that I slept most of the day. Sighing, I lean over and turn on the light, then feel under my mattress until I locate the notebook I keep hidden there. Pulling it out, I flip to the rough sketches I made about a year ago. It’s an illusion I was designing.
I follow the simple lines with my finger and then, inspired, I walk to my desk and grab a pencil. I’m a year older now—a year more experienced—and I’ve got some ideas to make the design better, sharper, easier to follow.
As long as everything is done exactly as I have it drawn, it should work beautifully. Last year, I had no way to make the design a reality. Now, thanks to Mr. Darby, I do. I smile, thinking of Mr. Darby’s shop.
My mother wants me out of the show? Fine. But it’s going to be one hell of a send-off.
I wake up the next morning exhausted and thankful it’s Sunday. I need the day of rest.
Though I assure my mother that I’ll be fine, she isn’t convinced.
“Are you sure? Do you think we should call a doctor?” Her brows knit together, and for a moment I sense her worry.
I’m not impressed.
I know she loves me. She just loves her career more. It’s a lesson I should have learned from her a long time ago. Take care of yourself first.
“I’m fine. Just tired. I think I’m going to run down and visit Mr. Darby. I’m sure he’s been worried about me.”
Mother waves her hand, and as soon as she’s out of sight, I grab my coat and pull out the letter still tucked in the pocket.
I turn it over in my hand, fighting temptation. It’s written in the same loopy handwriting as the letter on Mr. Darby’s desk, and the postscript says London. I glance at the return address, but it’s just a post-office box number. It’s still sealed, which makes me think Cole must have just grabbed it on his way out of the house the morning I slipped it out of his pocket.
I really, really want to open it. It is, after all, from someone in the Society Cole trusts. And judging by the beautiful penmanship, that someone is a girl. I hesitate. Maybe this could shed a light on his meeting with Mrs. Lindsay. Of all the things I know about Cole, that is the most baffling. What could he be doing with someone
I know is out to hurt me? And exactly what are his ties with the Society for Psychical Research? Is it as bad as Dr. Bennett said it was? Is that what Cole doesn’t want to tell me?
Taking a deep breath, I shove the envelope back into my pocket without opening it. After we finish our lesson, I’ll give it to him and beg his forgiveness. And I’ll ask him about Mrs. Lindsay, too.
Before I head downstairs, I grab the plans for my illusion. I’m pretty sure that Cole is taking me somewhere for my first lesson, but I plan on talking to Mr. Darby before we leave.
Cole lets me in seconds after I knock.
I frown. “Were you waiting for me?”
His smile lights up his face and my breath hitches. “I was indeed, Miss Van Housen.”
“Could you”—I look around for Mr. Darby—“sense me coming down?” I whisper.
“No,” he whispers back, leaning closer. “I could hear you. You clomp down those stairs like a herd of elephants.”
Surprised, I swat him and he jumps back, laughing. Then I blush a bit, wondering if the expression on my face is as goofy as the one on his. I love this carefree side of him. I wonder if I’ll ever see it again after I tell him I picked his pocket. When he learns the truth about who I am.
“Morning, missy!” Mr. Darby wraps me in a warm hug. His emotions are as simple, gruff, and caring as he is. “Your face looks like you got the hard end of a baseball bat. And you’re empty-handed. Where’s my breakfast?”
“Sorry. Anna and I are going out this morning,” Cole says quickly.
Mr. Darby sighs and his face wrinkles with mock pity. “Of course you two wouldn’t want to spend time with an old man. No thought for the aging. Well, don’t worry about me. I’ll stay here and wait for the cleaning girl to arrive.”
“We’ll bring you back some waffles,” I promise, before turning to Cole. “Actually, I could use a few minutes alone with your cousin if you don’t mind?”
Cole raises a brow and turns to Mr. Darby with a grin. “I do believe you are trying to make time with my girl.”
His girl? I feel another smile taking over my face.
“If I were half as young, you wouldn’t have a chance!”
“I don’t doubt it.” Cole smiles at me. “I’ll meet you outside. Don’t take too long or I’m liable to freeze to death.”
“I won’t.” I can’t stop smiling and my cheeks are still flushed from the exchange. Is that how he really feels or was he just teasing me?
After Cole leaves, I pull my notebook out of my handbag and hand it to Mr. Darby. “Can you make this?”
He frowns, studying my sketches. “Possibly. What is it?”
“A new illusion I’m working on. Something big. I just need to know if you can do it.” I turn the page and show him the notes I’d labored over. “I added these so you’d have more information.”
He nods. “I’ll look these over while you’re out and let you know later.”
I move toward the door. “Thanks, and let’s not mention this to anyone, okay?”
He smiles, his face crinkling into a hundred good-natured wrinkles. “Don’t worry about me. My lips are sealed. As long as you bring me those waffles!”
By the time we reach Child’s, I’ve developed a keen appetite, and the savory-sweet aroma of bacon and maple syrup makes my stomach growl. The waffles are light and airy, the bacon crisp. While we eat, we talk of mundane things, but as soon as we finish, we lean back in our chairs.
“Can we begin?” I ask. Excitement wars in my stomach with the waffle I just devoured. The combination is making me a little queasy.
Cole gives me a crooked grin. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just take a nap?”
I glare and he laughs. “Never mind the nap.”
His face clears and he leans closer to me. “The reason I brought you to a public place is that it will give us better access to subjects.”
“Subjects?”
“To practice on.”
“Oh.” I turn my head, observing the other diners: an elderly woman in a gray feathered hat dining alone and a mother and her two identically dressed daughters—probably tourists trying out Child’s famous waffles—and the dozens of others who pack the dining area. “You mean we’ll be experimenting on them?”
Cole shrugs. “Who else? So do you ever feel other people’s emotions without touching them?”
I chew on my lip, wondering how to explain myself. “I’ve always been more perceptive than most people and I can make a pretty good guess as to what they are feeling when I’m trying to, even when I’m not touching them. But lately . . .” I pause.
Cole leans forward. “Lately, what?”
“Lately my abilities seem to have heightened. Sometimes I feel myself getting messages when I’m not touching people or even paying much attention. And I’ve been having this recurring vision—I’ve never had more than one about a certain event.” I drop my eyes, fear and worry weighing on me like a ball and chain. The temptation to confide in him is overwhelming. Before I can say anything, however, he continues.
“You’re not the only Sensitive to say that after I’ve been around them for a while. The researchers have all sorts of guesses about why you are able to do the things you do, but no one understands how I do what I do.”
Distracted from my thoughts, I look up and meet his warm, dark eyes. My heart flutters in my chest. I don’t know how he does what he does either.
He clears his throat. “First, I want you to try it on me, then I’m going to throw a block up so you can get a sense of what that feels like.”
I make a face at him. “I already know what it feels like.”
He rolls his eyes. “No, I mean what it feels like to have someone block you after you’ve already made a connection. Maybe that will help you understand how to do what I’m doing.”
“All right.”
“I want you to explain to me what you’re doing while you’re doing it. It will give me a better sense of your process. Like when you’re doing the muscle-reading trick.”
“I’ll try. I just never thought about it much before.”
“Thinking about it is the first step in controlling it.”
I take a deep breath. “First, I clear my mind, though that’s a little difficult under the circumstances.”
Cole nods his encouragement. I try calming myself, but I keep thinking of him watching me and wonder how his eyes can be so dark and bright at the same time. “I need you to look at something else, all right?”
He grins, as if he knows exactly why I can’t concentrate. I resist the urge to stick out my tongue at him. He does what I ask, though, and stares back toward the kitchen area.
I take a deep breath and try to relax. “Then I touch the person, and it’s almost as if there’s a strand of silver ribbon reaching between us. Sometimes it’s really straight. Other times it wavers.” I lay my hand across his and my fingers curl around his automatically. A delightful shiver runs down my spine as his warmth transmits itself to me.
“What is it like right now?”
I give myself a good mental shake. Focus! “Clear and strong. Almost like a rod instead of a ribbon.”
“Interesting. Then what?”
“Then I wait. When it comes, it feels like a static electrical shock. If it’s really strong, it’s more like a charge of emotion.” I stop talking as I feel a connection being made and Cole’s emotions wash over me.
First, I feel his insecurity about what we’re doing, as if he’s unsure he can really teach me. I also feel the strength of his determination. But under that is a whisper of something else. I grab onto a tendril and am overwhelmed by the warmth and longing directed toward me. It almost feels like . . . My eyes widen and my breathing quickens.
Suddenly a block is thrown up so hard, I gasp. It’s like being flung headfirst into a brick wall. “What was that?”
Cole shifts in his chair and his eyes avoid mine. “I told you I was going to block you, so you can feel what it’s like.
”
“Oh. Right.” I lick my lips. “Now what?” I pull my hand away from his and it trembles as I raise my coffee cup to my mouth.
He pushes on, his voice exuding a confidence I now know he doesn’t really feel. “I want you to practice on someone else without touching them. Feel them out, then shut it off.”
“How?”
“Most Sensitives I know use their imaginations to visualize the process. Try sending a silver ribbon across the room. Just imagine it in your mind reaching out to them. Since you already do that when you’re touching someone, I think you should continue along those lines and just imagine yourself cutting it with scissors or something.”
I hear Cole’s words, but I’m distracted. I can’t help but wonder if one of the other Sensitives he’s talking about is the one who sent the letter sitting in my pocket.
“Are you ready?”
I force the woman from London out of my mind and nod. “Who would you like me to try it on first?”
Cole nods toward the woman and her two daughters, who are now finishing up their breakfast. “How about them?”
I shrug. “Okay.”
I look at the woman, now drumming her fingers on the table as if she’s impatient to get going. I notice the shadows under her eyes and the tightness in her mouth before spinning out a thread toward her. The woman’s emotions zip back toward me with surprising speed. Then I remember that Cole makes my abilities stronger. I wonder if he feels the tension pulsing down the strand. My own stomach clenches in sympathy. Quickly, I imagine a pair of scissors to snip the line with. They hover for a moment before I force them to cut. For a second nothing happens, but then the feelings coming off the woman in waves simply stop.
My eyes widen as I turn to Cole. “I did it!”
He nods solemnly, but his eyes glint with amusement. “You did.”
“So now I can control it?” My heart races. This means freedom. Normalcy.
“I don’t know. Some people pick it up rather quickly, because they’ve been doing it unknowingly for years. Others take months of training. You have more experience than most because of your work with your mother—the muscle reading and the séances and so on.”