But she had no money. She hadn’t even brought the hundred euro notes from home. Martina sighed heavily. Not only was she an idiot, she couldn’t even learn from her mistakes. Silently, she cursed.
Time to venture farther afield.
She remembered a bakery café across the street, but a quick (invisible) look through the front window revealed a couple making out in the otherwise dark and empty café. Continuing down the street, she discovered a grocer (still open, and, moreover, full of people) and a clothier and a fast food restaurant, closed for the night. Inside the empty restaurant, the frozen french fries and frozen hamburger patties looked singularly unappealing. She didn’t know how to operate the ice cream machine and the cones looked as unappetizing as the frozen food. She tried a cone, devouring it hungrily, but it tasted very bad and she wasn’t tempted to try a second one.
To one side of Main Street, there was a large residential section. House after house. Lots to choose from. Hating herself for what she was considering, she drifted toward the houses. She would make reparations. Pfeffer would help her with that. She felt the hum of hundreds of thoughts, indistinguishable.
It was so crowded here. Too crowded. Wake one person and wake them all.
Her rule for herself in Nice was to avoid populous areas. Placing a gift in an apartment was fast and easy; stealing something involved more risk, requiring both more time and more finesse. And she was weary, which would make her sloppy once she slipped back to her solid form.
There had been lone houses on the road she followed into town. That would be safer. Turning back from the crowded residential streets, she zoomed back to the quiet highway. The first house she saw turned out to be only a skeleton of a house—beautiful from outside, but unfinished inside and definitely uninhabited. She eyed a caravan—a trailer, in American English—parked beside the structure, but even if there was food inside, she would almost certainly awaken the sleeping residents.
The next house, over a kilometer further down the road, was tiny. Martina investigated this one, however. The residents were asleep, in rooms with closed doors. There was a noisy fan blowing in each room. It would mask any noise she made. She investigated the kitchen. Covering one counter and most of the dining table were trays of vegetable starts. Tomatoes. Lettuce. And peppers, maybe? Yes, the small labels told her she was right. She smiled invisibly. Gardening had been one part of her compound education she’d actually enjoyed. But plant starts wouldn’t feed her. Her eyes drifted back to the counter. Behind the tray of lettuce starts, she saw a bowl of fruit.
Coming solid beside the fruit, Martina hastily stuffed her pockets with a banana, an apple, and, oh, delicious, a peach! Quietly, she opened the refrigerator. An enormous stuffed crêpe. What was it called? A burrito? Yes. Fat and delicious looking. Martina felt her mouth watering. Grabbing it, she rippled invisible once more. Then she tore along the highway back to the narrow cot in the nurse’s station, came solid, and devoured the burrito and the peach. The two other pieces of fruit, she saved for morning, reasoning she might be starving when she woke up.
And then, before she could adjust the lumpy pillow on the cot, she fell asleep.
~ ~ ~
The following morning, Martina awoke just before the sun rose. Sitting up, she realized what a foolish risk she’d taken, going to sleep with no alarm. She slipped back into invisibility. School might be done for summer, but that didn’t mean it would be empty of personnel. This lapse was a clear sign she’d been too tired to think straight. Fortunately, it had turned out well.
Passing outside through the walls of the school, she began to call out (even though he’d reported he was “deaf” unless touching a caméléon.) She listened, too, for the murmur of Pfeffer’s thoughts. He was an early riser. At least, in France, when his body was on a French schedule, he rose early.
As hour after hour ticked past with no hint of Pfeffer’s thoughts, Martina blamed his silence on his internal clock, still set to match French time and not California time. Of course, she was awake…. Maybe he just wasn’t doing much … thinking.
Well, assuming Pfeffer was here, where was he most likely to be found? He’d been a professor, so she supposed there was a chance he might visit the high school. He was a physician as well, so maybe she should try to find the local doctor’s clinic. She could pass invisibly through every building in Las Abuelitas if she had to, but the prospect was not a pleasant one. Why didn’t he wake up, already?
After a moment hesitating between “professor” and “physician,” she decided to investigate the local medical clinic. A high school was hardly the same thing as a university. It took the better part of an hour before she located a pharmacie beside which was a tiny doctor’s office. She was grateful she hadn’t been in need of actual medical attention; there was no helpfully illuminated green cross indicating the establishment as a pharmacy, as there would have been in France.
There was no helpfully illuminated Pfeffer, either.
Frustrated, she decided to try another tack: she would listen to everyday conversations, in case someone said something about Pfeffer. She had nothing better to try. And she was unwilling to face the possibility that Pfeffer had not, in fact, journeyed to Las Abuelitas at all.
She looked for a place where the largest number of people might be found and settled, at last, on haunting the rock walls of an establishment called Las Abuelitas Bakery Café. A café seemed like a good place to listen for information—at least, it would have been if this was France. She hoped Americans liked their cafés as much as did the French.
Apparently the Americans residing in Las Abuelitas did like their cafés. She settled into the wall and listened for an hour and then two hours and then three hours. In all that time, she heard not a single mention of Pfeffer’s name. Nor was the echo of his familiar tones anywhere to be heard. She listened to conversation after conversation, growing each hour more despondent, but no one spoke of him.
By now, it was the dinner hour, and fewer people were frequenting the café. Then it was the hour after dinner, and people arrived for desserts and coffees. Still, she heard no mention of Dr. Pfeffer’s name.
And then, just as she was deciding to leave the walls of the bakery café, Martina heard the name “Sir Walter,” spoken by a young woman dashing back inside the café and apologizing to a woman she called “Ma” for having been gone.
“It was important, okay, Ma?” said the young woman, tying on an apron and taking over the till behind the bakery case. Sir Walter’s name did not come up between them again, but Martina was pretty sure there weren’t that many people in the United States who would be referred to as “Sir Walter.” It was the name by which Waldhart de Rochefort’s friends addressed him. At last, she was on the right track.
Shortly after, the girl’s mother shooed the last customers out in order to close the café.
“Where’s my best platter?” asked the mother.
“It’s at Sir Walter’s,” said the girl. “Oh, no—wait. Actually I think Will and Mickie have it.”
Mickie? Hope prickled inside Martina. Another of Pfeffer’s acquaintances: Mickie was his assistant. He had to be here, somewhere.
“Well, I need that platter,” said the girl’s mother.
“Ma, we need to talk,” said the girl.
“Platter first. Talk after. I need that platter. I’m catering a baby shower tomorrow morning. Why did you have to take my best platter? Honestly, Gwyn.”
“Fine. I’ll get your stupid platter.” And then the girl walked to the front door and whispered, “Chrétien! I’m going for a walk. I’d rather you accompanied me in the flesh, darling boy.”
“I don’t like you wandering the streets at night by yourself, Gwyn,” called her mother, from the back of the café.
“Not going alone, Ma. Chrétien’s right here.”
And then, before Martina’s astonished eyes, Chrétien materialized in the café. Chrétien as in Chrétien de Rochefort, with whom she had spoken in Montpelli
er after Hansel and Georg’s defection.
Another good sign. Another reason to believe Pfeffer must be here, somewhere. Perhaps, like her, Pfeffer had been masking his thoughts. It was surely no coincidence that Sir Walter, Mickie, and Chrétien de Rochefort were all in Las Abuelitas.
If worst came to worst, Martina could consult with Chrétien. She’d liked him enough to reveal quite a lot about her brothers’ intentions, fears, and concerns after they’d fled. Later, though, she had wondered if she’d been wise to reveal so much. Well, that was all in the past. And in the present, Chrétien could bring her one step closer to Pfeffer.
Martina followed Gwyn and Chrétien out of the café, pushing through the tickle of rock, the lingering hug of glass. As she went, she invoked her steady stream of music.
Gwyn told Chrétien she had to retrieve a platter from Mickie’s house and did Chrétien wish to accompany her?
He did.
As did Martina. It was a long walk. Maybe Pfeffer had spent the day with Mickie, somewhere just outside Martina’s range. Her hopes rose swiftly as she followed the pair.
Gwyn kept up a steady stream of conversation regarding her upcoming birthday and the part she expected Chrétien to play in the celebration.
“Of course Ma will make the cake. I’ve never asked; what’s your favorite cake?”
Chrétien responded. “The name, it escapes me for the moment. What is it called, the one you favor above all others?”
“Uh, you mean dark chocolate?”
“That it is,” replied Chrétien, white teeth flashing in the dark. “My favorite cake is dark chocolate.”
“Liar,” said Gwyn. “My favorite is carrot cake. Now what’s your favorite?”
“It had indeed escaped my memory that I prefer carrot over anything I have yet tasted.”
“You’re hopeless,” said Gwyn. “You’re really not going to let me know what you like, are you?”
“I believe I have made quite evident what it is I like.” Chrétien wrapped an arm around Gwyn’s waist and kissed her just where her earlobe met her jaw.
“You know what? Forget it. I’m having Sylvia make a cheesecake for my birthday. Give Ma this year off. You think Sylvia would do it?”
“But of course she would,” replied Chrétien.
“I’ve never had cheesecake for my birthday.”
“I have never had any cake to celebrate the anniversary of my birth,” said Chrétien.
“Oh, that’s tragic!”
“You forget, I lived beside a baker. I never had cake because I preferred marzipan.”
The two discussed marzipan at length. Pfeffer’s name didn’t come into the conversation once, which was a bit disappointing. Mickie’s name, however, came into the conversation as they approached a tiny house.
Gwyn pulled Chrétien to the side of the road and jumped, wrapping both legs around Chrétien’s waist, so that he had to catch her.
“Kiss me hard, handsome,” murmured Gwyn. “I need to be in a good mood to face the Mickie-nator.”
Martina left them to the improvement of Gwyn’s … mood, and crossed the street, passing invisibly into the only house in sight.
A house Martina recognized from last night’s thievery.
36
EXPECTED
Las Abuelitas, California
Martina recognized Mickie at once. This was, indeed, the very house from which she had stolen food. She would think about that later.
Mickie was in conversation with a boy who looked like he must be her brother—Mickie called him “Will”—and a girl who did not look like a sister. Mickie called the girl “Sam,” which Martina thought was an American boy name. But the girl responded to it as though it was, in fact, her name.
“When are you expecting Pfeffer?” the girl asked, after a lull in the conversation.
Pfeffer! Martina’s invisible gut wrenched. He was expected. Expected!
Mickie shrugged. “When I see him.”
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Chrétien and Gwyn (who was in a very good mood.) Martina wanted to scream at Gwyn for interrupting the conversation just when Pfeffer had come under discussion.
“I came for the platter,” said Gwyn. “Hey Sam, Will.”
The conversation drifted to frustratingly mundane topics. Gardening. The heat. Household furnishings. Martina found herself losing interest and began to scan for letters, emails, or any other indication as to where Pfeffer might be found.
But then Pfeffer’s name was reintroduced into the conversation once again. As, to her surprise, was her own name.
“Pfeffer says he might ask the girl from Hansel and Georg’s group—Martina—to talk to the cadre in Cornwall,” Mickie was saying. “About whether the university option is the right one for them.”
“University option?” asked Gwyn.
“Sir Walter and Pfeffer have decided to cover educational expenses for anyone who wishes to live like Pfeffer does—minus their rippling powers,” said Mickie.
“Pfeffer can totally ripple,” said Gwyn. “I saw it at the château of guns and needles.”
“Yeah,” said Will, “but he doesn’t exercise his ability. Not usually.”
Pfeffer didn’t exercise his ability to turn invisible? This was news to Martina. It was rather shocking news. Why wouldn’t he want to use his abilities? Not for the same reason that her brothers Friedrich and Günter had abandoned theirs, certainly. Unless … perhaps de Rochefort—Sir Walter—had demanded it of Pfeffer in the same way that Pfeffer was now demanding it. Well, not demanding it, exactly. But still, Martina was glad she hadn’t gone looking for Sir Walter. The thought that he might have demanded such a thing of Pfeffer made her feel even more distrustful of him.
“I still say it’s wrong,” said Sam. “To deny the sleepers their ability to ripple.”
“Sam, think about what you’re saying,” retorted Mickie. “Think how we’re all scared because we’ve got one mystery rippler running around Las Abs.”
A mystery rippler? Did they know about her?
“And we at least understand rippling,” continued Mickie. “You want to unleash the Angel Corps sleepers on a population that doesn’t understand rippling? Multiplying our situation by hundreds?”
Will shook his head, frowning.
“Samantha has a valid point, though,” said Gwyn, her legs sprawled on Chrétien’s lap. “I mean, if you’re born with the ability to be the next Shakespeare and someone takes away your ability to read and write, that’s a bit cruel, don’t you think?”
“That analogy is horrible,” said Mickie.
Gwyn’s eyes rolled to the ceiling.
Mickie continued. “Let’s say someone’s born with the ability to be the next Hitler. You don’t start by offering lessons on Eugenics and racism.”
“Mick, your analogy is no better. Be fair.” That was spoken by Will.
While the conversation wasn’t without personal interest, it was also infuriating. When would they get back to talking about Pfeffer?
Martina heard thoughts from Sam’s mind, realizing she could already distinguish the girl’s thoughts from the thoughts of the other two girls in the room.
It’s not fair. It’s safe. It’s convenient. But it’s not fair.
Martina liked Sam.
She tried listening in to Mickie’s thoughts, as Mickie seemed to be the one whom the others expected would hear first from Pfeffer. But Mickie’s thoughts were hard to hear. Only dimly perceptible. It was like listening to a non-native speaker addressing her in a language that wasn’t her first language, either. There were hiccups and sputters in the translation. Or maybe it was just too strenuous playing music in her head while attempting to overhear the thoughts of one person after another after another.
Martina realized her thoughts had drifted. Her “music” played still, but she needed to do a better job of guarding herself against thinking in words.
The party of friends seemed to be breaking up, and Martina had
to choose which person (or pair) she wanted to remain with.
Will and Sam were arguing about whether Sam could run home alone or not. They settled their disagreement by deciding she’d be fine if she rippled. Will kissed her swiftly, while his sister’s head was turned away.
Gwyn and Chrétien had crossed to the door and were leaving.
Instead of following Chrétien, as she had earlier planned to do, Martina found herself trailing after the girl called Sam. The one who didn’t like how the Angel Corps members were kept from exercising the power they’d been born with. Sam felt like a safer person to ask for help. Martina followed her. And when Sam vanished, Martina listened for her voice and followed her still.
Sam mumbled thoughts as she ran swiftly along the quiet highway.
When was Pfeffer coming back? Was his package safe? What if Pfeffer got caught in Helga’s old lab at UCM?
Sam was speaking of Helga Gottlieb. Where was Helga’s old lab? Where was UCM? Sam could tell her and Martina could go there and find Pfeffer.
So she took an enormous risk and called Sam’s name from within her mind. She called and she waited to see if there would be any response.
.
37
KIND OF HEART
Las Abuelitas, California
Sam had grown accustomed to the sound of music. So accustomed to it that she barely heard it anymore. But to hear an unknown voice? Calling her by name? That was something new. Whoever it was, it sure didn’t sound like Fritz. Or Hansel or Gretel. It sounded like a girl.
Sam threw her thoughts out. Who are you? Show yourself.
The music stopped playing in Sam’s head. That was a relief. But she heard no answer to her question. Nor did she see anyone materializing.
Then she heard something in the same voice.
I’ll come solid. I need to talk to you.
Sam wasn’t afraid—she was invisible—but she was also prepared to throw a warning out to Sir Walter in case the mystery guest who showed up seemed … hostile. She’d learned a lot facing Helga, Hans, and Fritz. Basically, she’d learned to be prepared for, well, things you weren’t expecting. And needles. Lots of needles. Maybe Fritz had learned to disguise his thoughts to sound like a woman.
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