Born of Deception

Two

The next morning, I walk into the dilapidated theater that will be the troupe’s home base for the next several months. It’s small and, if the number of days it’s available for rehearsal is any indication, only marginally successful, which makes it perfect for our needs. We can store our props here even when we’re not using it.

The floors of the theater are its original wood and have long lost their luster. They squeak as I tiptoe down the aisle and sit on one of the stained brown seats. A dozen or so people are gathered in knots in front of the stage, no doubt introducing themselves, though if the level of camaraderie is any indication, many of them already know one another.

I feel awkward joining them—most of them are older and have more experience than I do. I’d received a list of participating acts when I signed my contract, and I study the people before me, wondering who is in which act. Some of them are easy. . . . I’ve seen pictures of Jeanne Hart, the redheaded songstress. She’s our headliner and well regarded worldwide. I guess that the three men with similar features are the Woodruff brothers, who are both classical musicians and blackface performers. I’m not sure who the rest are, but I know I’ll have them sorted out before too long. We’ll be spending a lot of time together the next couple of months. I’m so engrossed in watching the others that I don’t notice that someone is next to me until he sits down. I startle and look up into the familiar deep cerulean blue of the most amazing eyes I have ever seen. It’s the man from the ship.

I look around, wildly wondering if he followed me and if someone would help if he were to accost me.

He holds out his hand. “I thought you looked familiar when I saw you on the ship. I was going to say something but I didn’t get a chance and then you were busy with your friends. My name is Bronco Billy. I do rope tricks.”

I shake his hand uncertainly and blush, remembering my hasty retreat yesterday on deck. Then I frown. “You said I looked familiar? Have we met?”

He shook his head. “No, but I saw you and your mom perform once. Your levitation trick brought the house down.”

He went to that show?

I’d only performed the trick once, the night I stole the show away from my mother. A shiver crawls up my back, remembering the horrible experience that occurred afterward.

What are the odds that he would have been to that show? “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I told him. I swallow and try to think of something to say. Bronco Billy is probably the handsomest man I have ever met and as much time as I spent out west, I’ve never seen a cowboy like him before. His hair is the color of sunshine, which makes the unearthly blue of his eyes even more intense. His nose is straight, his chin and jaw are strong and manly, and his lips are full. He speaks with a light drawl that, when combined with the open friendliness of his face, makes him seem even more trustworthy. I sense nothing from him but sociable curiosity.

His eyes crinkle up at the corners and I stare, my heart skipping wildly in my chest. I swallow. My heart shouldn’t be behaving this way for anyone but Cole. Of course, any heart might be confused when faced with such male beauty.

“I did enjoy it,” he says. “You were pretty as a picture and twice as talented.”

“Talented as a picture?” I ask.

He laughs. “You know what I meant. How do you like London?”

My eyes narrow. “Hey! Where did your drawl go?”

He grins and his cheeks redden a bit. “I have a confession: I’m not really a cowboy. I only use the drawl during my act or when I’m nervous. I was actually raised in Philadelphia.”

Part of me wants to ask why he was nervous about sitting next to me, but I’m more curious about how he developed a cowboy act in Philadelphia. “How did you become a cowboy?” I ask.

“Like I said, I was raised in the city, but I used to devour all those penny books about the West. All I wanted in the world was to be a cowboy. I was the only kid in school who carried a lariat everywhere he went. Of course, by the time I was old enough to run away west, the need for cowboys was drastically reduced. I worked on a couple of ranches, but the pay was poor, the living conditions abysmal, and the work was boring, so I used to do rope and gun tricks to entertain the other fellows.”

I want to ask him more, but just then Louie, the show director, spots us and hurries over to where we’re sitting. “Billy, can you help the Woodruffs move some props backstage?”

With a tip of his cowboy hat, Billy ambles off, his boots scuffing along the floor.

Louie resembles a penguin with his short, stubby body and his short, stubby hands tucked into his lapels. An unlit cigar is attached permanently to his lips and he chews on it constantly. I’ve met him several times in New York, but I’ve never seen him actually light it—I wonder if it’s the same one or if he trades them out on occasion.

I stand, bracing myself, and he gives me an exuberant hug. Though I have a natural distrust of managers, it’s hard not to respond to Louie Larkin’s larger-than-life persona.

“How you doing, doll? You all right? You ready for the dummy runs?”

Louie speaks rapidly in a show-business lingo that would confuse a normal person. Luckily, with years of experience, I’m not a normal person and know he’s asking if I’m ready for a series of rehearsals before we begin playing in front of an audience.

Before I can answer, he continues. “I’m moving you up on the bill, Anna Banana. How do you like them apples? We’ve had a cancellation on the tour. Mama Belinsky of the Belinsky family acrobatic ensemble is having another baby. Who’d have thought it?” He asks the question as if genuinely outraged and then continues without waiting for an answer. “I’m putting you third from the top with only the Woodruffs and Jeanne above you. I’ve only seen your act once, but I have a feeling you’re gonna be a little moneymaker, a real show stealer.” He looks up. “Russell! Hold up.”

He pats my arm and leaves me blinking, having said his piece.

I’m being moved up on the bill already? I clasp my hands together tightly to keep from clapping and jumping up and down like a child. He must really think I have potential to move me up this quickly. He hasn’t even seen me perform in front of a live audience!

I sit back down as everyone prepares for the meeting, marveling at my good fortune. After being raised on the road and never knowing if we were going to be flush or broke at any given moment or if my mother was going to be taken to jail for our fake séances, this kind of success is hard to relate to.

Performing magic has always been my salvation. No matter what’s happening in my real life, the moment I step out onstage everything falls away except the connection between me and the audience. Even when I performed with my mother, I looked forward to the moment when I could entertain and awe the people watching me. There’s nothing like it on earth. Now that I have my own act, I’ll be able to stretch myself as a magician and performer, trying illusions my mother would never allow for fear of being upstaged.

Bronco Billy saunters back out from behind the curtain and resumes his seat next to me. Filled with happiness, I give him and everyone else a brilliant smile. He stares a moment and then smiles back.

The happiness stays with me all morning and by the time Cole comes to the hotel to collect me for our afternoon together, I’m downright giddy. The only fly in my ointment is our appointment to meet with the board members of the Society for Psychical Research for tea, but I’ve been firmly pushing that out of my mind all morning.

It’s overcast but not raining, so we decide to walk. The tickling in my toes almost sends me tap-dancing across the cobbled streets and sidewalks, but Cole’s steadying hand on my elbow keeps me to a ladylike pace, though my attempt at modesty is somewhat marred by the excited swivel of my head as we reach Shaftsbury Avenue and pass theater after theater.

If the troupe is a hit in other major European cities, I just might be performing my magic in one of these beautiful, ancient theaters. Theaters so old that they make anything we have to offer in the States look gauche.

Of course, the old theater we’re currently practicing in is a long way from Leicester Square and the Strand. Not so much in geography—we’ve only been walking for about twenty minutes—but in glitz and shine, it’s like comparing the great Houdini to his lesser known brother, the just-all-right Hardeen.

Or would that be my just-all-right uncle Hardeen? I reflect for a moment on my complex relationship with Harry Houdini, who is either my father or my mentor and the man who gave me this incredible opportunity. My mother says he’s my father, but I learned early to suspect every word that comes out of her exquisitely painted bow-shaped mouth. On the other hand, he’s taken a greater than normal interest in my career and if my instincts are right, the great Houdini is as much of a psychic as I am, which means I may have gotten my Sensitivity from him.

Unable to contain myself, I skip a bit as I walk: The thrill of having an entire ocean between my mother and me is liberating. Of course, when Mother sails to France next month with Jacques, she’ll only be a hop, skip, and a boat from me, but I have weeks before I have to worry about that.

Cole smiles down at my exuberance, his rich eyes filled with warmth. My heart joins my feet in its tap dance. Having Cole by my side is like cotton candy clouds of almost perfect happiness surrounding everything I do.

“I take it you’re not nervous,” he says.

“About what?” For a moment I’m confused, but then his words sink in like a dart, bursting my happy bubble. My psychic abilities, the same ones I’ve spent a lifetime hiding from my ambitious mother so she wouldn’t turn me into a circus sideshow, the same ones that almost got my mother and me killed, are going be trotted out and examined by total strangers this afternoon. “Well, I wasn’t until you brought it up.”

My steps slow. This is what I want, I remind myself. Those members of the Society with psychical talents, other Sensitives like Cole and me, can help teach me how to control my abilities.

It’s the other members—the scientists who study them—who worry me.

We stop altogether and I stare at our reflection in a shop window. I adjust the belt of my wraparound coat against the wind blowing off the Thames. The top of my cherry-red cloche barely comes up to Cole’s shoulder and his bowler hat gives him even more inches over me. I stand on my tiptoes and he laughs.

“You shouldn’t worry so much. No one is going to make you do anything you don’t want to do. Not while I’m around.” He slips an arm about my shoulders and I nestle closer, basking in the safety and warmth he gives me. As always, an almost electrical current flows between us, like a flexible silver line connecting us.

I smile back at him, trying to banish my worry. We’re like a perfect, harmonic match.

“I want you to meet someone,” Cole said suddenly, interrupting my thoughts. “I think she’ll be able to alleviate your concern about the Society. Or at least give you the information you’ll need to know.”

She?

My mind flicks back to the letter with the curlicue handwriting I’d pickpocketed several months before. Not one of my finer moments, but even though it hadn’t been a love letter, it had still been written by a female. The mysterious “L.”

“Who?” My voice comes out more surly than I’d intended.

“Her name is Leandra. I’ve known her for ages. I think you’ll like her.”

Reluctantly, I follow along, feeling ill at ease and not at all sure I want to meet Leandra, who he’s known for ages. We take the subway, or what Londoners call the tube, to Camden Town and walk about four blocks to a small brick house in a row of small brick houses. I’ve been silent most of the way here, and even though he must know I’m cross, he refuses to ask why. Or perhaps he simply hasn’t noticed. My jealousy feels more and more childish as time passes.

“I hope she knows we’re coming,” I say, breaking the silence. I may not know a lot about British etiquette, but I do know that impromptu visits are frowned upon.

“Oh, she’s probably been expecting us from the moment you arrived.” Cole breezes through a small iron gate and up the steps. I follow halfheartedly. By the time I reach him he’s already rung the bell.

A gray-haired woman takes our coats and ushers us down a narrow hallway. Then we make a quick right into a sun-soaked sitting room. I blink at the girl sitting on the couch. Her golden head is bent over an embroidery hoop and even from here I can see a line of concentration between her eyes. Then she looks up, and she’s so pretty and fresh, my heart sinks. Her dress is cornflower blue with a crisp white collar and her bobbed hair falls in soft waves to her jawline. It’s only when she rises from the sofa with her hand outstretched that I realize she’s several years older than Cole and I.

“I’m so glad to finally meet you! I’ve been looking forward to this.”

I take her hand and feel an immediate reaction. Not as intense as the electricity I feel with Cole but rather a tingling warmth like I’d felt with Pratik. She’s a Sensitive, I think with some surprise. Then I chastise myself for my stupidity. Of course she is. Cole said she would alleviate my concerns over meeting the Society’s board members. I’m not sure I’ll ever get over the novelty of meeting other people with psychic abilities.

“Nice to meet you,” I murmur. “I’m Anna Van Housen.”

“Leandra. Leandra Wright. Please sit down.” She turns to Cole and gives him hug, which, to my surprise, he returns warmly. What happened to his shyness around women?

She tilts her face up, a lovely smile curving her lips. “What have you been doing with yourself? It’s been a week since I’ve seen you! The boys are going to be livid at missing you, but they spend all day in school now. I miss them dreadfully.”

Leandra’s lilting English accent and gay mannerisms definitely belong to the curlicue penmanship, and from the look of adoration on her face it seems as if she holds Cole in very high regard indeed.

She turns away from him and snatches up my hand. I follow her to the sofa. Through her touch I feel her excitement and curiosity over meeting me, but there’s also something else, a block of some kind. I frown, puzzled. The only blocks I have ever felt are intended to hide emotions from me. I can feel Leandra’s emotions with no problem.

What is she blocking, then?

She drops my hand as we sit and faces me, her clear green eyes surveying me with interest.

“Anna was exhausted last night,” Cole says. “I drove her around London for a bit and then we got a bite to eat.”

I frown. Why didn’t he tell her that he wanted to take me someplace special for our first night together in months?

“Did you take her to Mob’s Hole?” She turns to me. “I love it there. We used to go all the time before I had the boys. Aren’t the chips divine?”

Disappointment tightens my throat. For some reason I thought Mob’s Hole was a special place Cole wanted to share just with me. The thought of him tucked away in the corner of that cozy old place with Leandra hurts. Of course, I knew he had friends; London is his home, after all. But did she have to be so pretty and vivacious? I murmur that the chips were indeed divine.

If she notices my reserve, she gives no sign but continues on as if afraid to stop talking. “Cole tells me you’re a magician! How utterly marvelous. When shall you perform? I would love to attend. Oh, wait. Can you stay for tea? We might as well get that started if you can.”

“Actually that’s why we came by,” Cole says, sitting forward. “Anna is meeting some of the board members for tea this afternoon and is a bit apprehensive.”

Leandra’s mouth flattens. “I knew she was a smart girl.”

“Leandra!” Cole exclaims. “You’re supposed to help, not hinder.”

She shakes her head. “It’s rather a mess right now. The only reason I’m still involved is to help new Sensitives, though that is getting more and more difficult under the rules of the new board president.” She turns to me. “Sensitives are not allowed to vote on Society policy. Some of the scientists believe we shouldn’t be trained to control our abilities. They want to put us all in a lab.”

“Oh, you’re exaggerating. Not all of them. Some are pretty decent chaps.” He waves a hand at Leandra. “I know, I know. There are some pretty deep divisions within the Society. But I still think we do more good than ill and we need to keep pushing for equal say in policy.”

“Maybe,” Leandra concedes. “But it’s difficult to be nice to anyone with all the new rules.”

I clear my throat. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned that. What kind of rules?” Somehow I am not reassured.

“New recruits aren’t being trained right away. That’s a concession to the scientists who believe that any kind of training will skew the results of their precious tests. Now, with young Sensitives such as yourself, it doesn’t matter so much. But many older Sensitives are in pretty poor mental shape. They have no idea what is going on and feel completely alone. Or they try to tell someone about their experiences and end up in asylums. Can you imagine hearing other people’s thoughts all the time and not being able to turn it off?” Leandra shudders. “Plus, interaction between the Sensitives is being highly discouraged.”

“What?” Cole’s eyebrows rise in alarm. “Our strength lies in sharing our knowledge.”

“They don’t want our knowledge shared, and they definitely don’t want us strong,” Leandra says flatly. “They proved that when they elected Darius Gamel to serve as president.”

“I don’t like Darius Gamel any more than you do, but he did make a break with Dr. Boyle before they kicked him out of the Society. They were never shown to have any connection other than simple friendship.”

I startle at the name, a shiver going down my spine. Dr. Franklin Boyle is the reason my mother was kidnapped and I almost drowned in the Hudson River. The new president of the board is a friend of his?

Cole gives me a quick sympathetic glance and I glare. He wants me to meet these people?

“Isn’t that enough?” Leandra snaps, then, as if sensing my mood, she reaches out and takes my hand. “I don’t mean to scare you. I’m just angry. The organization does have a worthy intent—it’s just gotten a bit sidetracked.”

Like before, her emotions are clear and open and I sense only concern. Everything she says is truth, but then, as if a dam has broken, I feel a roar of anger washing over me like a storm surge.

She’s not just angry, she’s furious.

Leandra snatches her hand away and looks abashed. “Cole hasn’t told me about your abilities, but I take it mind reading is one of them? That’s what that felt like, anyway.”

It feels strange to talk openly about my gifts. I’ve kept them hidden for so long, the sudden exposure is disturbing. “Actually, no. I can’t read minds. I sense emotions.”

“Oh,” Leandra says softly. For a moment her forehead wrinkles and her eyes look brooding. Then she brightens. “I bet that comes in very handy. I’ve never heard of anyone else with that ability. And the board members won’t be expecting that one at all. You would be able to get a good read on everyone.”

“You’re not asking her to spy?” Cole asks, his voice incredulous.

“Oh, don’t be such a goody-goody,” Leandra says, and I hide a smile. “I didn’t mean that exactly, only that it would be useful. You don’t know how much things have changed. You’ve been gone for months.”

She turns back to me. “It’s completely up to you, my dear. If you get any impressions and wish to share them, Harrison and I would be most appreciative. Harrison is my husband and a detective with Scotland Yard.”

Her voice is proud, and I glance at Cole. “Is that where you got the idea of being a detective?”

“Harrison is quite the fellow,” Cole admits. “I’d be proud to be like him.”

Does he want to be like him because Harrison is a wonderful guy or because Cole is trying to win Leandra’s approval?

Leandra flushes with pleasure at the compliment to her husband, and I’m suddenly ashamed of my jealous thoughts. What’s wrong with me? She’s obviously devoted to her family.

She turns to me. “What are your other abilities, if you don’t mind my asking?”

I try not to mind but I do. It still feels so personal. “Why don’t you tell me what yours are?” I counter.

Leandra flashes a wry grin. “Touché. I dream.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

Her lips curl upward, but I sense the shadows behind the smile. “I dream other people’s dreams. Or nightmares.”

I sit back, flabbergasted. What would that be like? Seeing visions of the future is bad enough, but to see the nightmares of others? “That must be awful,” I manage.

She shrugs. “I’m used to it.”

Cole stands. “I hate to cut this short, but we need to be at Claridge’s by four.”

Leandra walks us to the door and this time I don’t even have to touch her to feel her worry.

“Well, good luck. I’m sure it’s going to be fine.” Her voice is comforting, but I’m not in the least comforted.

What if I’m making the biggest mistake of my life?

I stop Cole just outside the hotel, my heart pounding. “What are they going to want to know about me? How much do I have to tell them?” Talking about my life has never been easy. What if they ask who my father is?

Cole squeezes my hand, understanding my reticence. “Don’t be so worried. You don’t have to tell them anything you don’t want to. Sensitives are secretive people. Like you, they’ve learned there are things it isn’t wise to talk about. Besides, the board members aren’t really that interested in you or your background, just your abilities.”

I swallow. “Somehow I don’t find that reassuring,” I tell him as he holds the door open for me.

Claridge’s is prim, privileged, and pompous enough to make my tacky American self squirm in discomfort. Cole told me the owners just refurbished it, but somehow it looks as if it’s been exactly the same for the past one hundred years. Perhaps it’s the dignified, stiffly starched maître d’ who welcomes us, or the matching waiters serving tea to the dozens of well-heeled patrons sitting at tiny tables. The creamy plaster ceiling with its swirls and whorls is a work of art designed to intimidate, and the high arches and columns surrounding the room are awe inspiring. Everything serves to remind me that I’m a long, long way from New York, where most restaurants are designed to entertain as well as feed. I’m so daunted I almost forget to worry about meeting the board members.

Almost.

I feel the men’s eyes upon me as I approach the table on the heels of a waiter so disapproving he could be my mother in disguise. Why are there are only two board members? One, a large redheaded man, I quickly measure as friendly. It’s the other who sends a shiver of apprehension up my spine. His eyes are small and dark, like raisins that have sat in the sun too long, and his mouth is a thin flat line. The anxiety whirling in my stomach grows as I realize they sat Cole and me at opposite ends of the white linen-covered table.

Neither of the board members offers to shake my hand as we’re introduced, and I’m frustrated by my inability to get a read on what they’re feeling. Though Cole taught me how to sense people’s feelings without touching them, my control is still erratic and it is difficult to do with more than one person anyway. Is their reluctance to shake my hand intentional or just some odd British custom? I sit, feeling terribly underdressed in my simple yellow sheath. I wanted to wear something sunny to combat the gloomy London winter, but sitting among the other patrons all dressed in dark dignified colors, I feel as conspicuous as a canary among ravens.

“Thank you so much for meeting with us, Miss Van Housen,” the man with the raisin eyes says.

I redden. I had been so intimidated that I’d glossed right over the introductions and have no idea which board member is which. “Thank you,” I say. “I’m sorry, I’m hopeless with names?” I raise my voice at the end, hoping he will get the hint and he does, reintroducing everyone. This time I listen carefully.

“This is Julian Casperson,” he says, smoothly indicating the other man. “I am Darius Gamel, president of the board. My apologies for having such a small contingent to welcome you. Julian is a researcher as well as a board member and the two of us are the only ones employed by the Society full-time. The other board members and researchers had previous engagements.”

I smile, shooting him a look from under my lashes. Somehow I had envisioned Dr. Franklin Boyle’s friend having the same charm as he did, but whereas Dr. Boyle looked like an English squire, Mr. Gamel, with his pale skin and long face, looks more like a cadaver.

The image brings to mind Walter, the only dead person I’ve ever met. My mother and I had been doing fake séances for years, but all that changed when Cole attended one—because of his heightening effect on my abilities, the séance became very, very real. I was possessed by a young soldier who had been in the Great War. Walter had died of dysentery, yet he looked healthier than Mr. Gamel.

I bite my lower lip and bring my focus back to the conversation. My nerves are getting the better of me. I shoot a worried glance at Cole, but he’s looking at Mr. Casperson as if trying to figure something out. I try to put out a strand, or ribbon, as Cole had instructed when teaching me how to feel someone’s emotions without touching them, but I can’t concentrate.

The waiter standing to the right of our table suddenly springs into action and fills the delicate white cups with tea.

“I hope you don’t mind, but we’ve already ordered,” Mr. Gamel says. “I wanted to make sure we have plenty of time to get to know you. Did Colin tell you how the process works?”

His voice is friendly enough, with a formality that most Englishmen seem to have. That same formality had been a bit off-putting when I had first met Cole, but once I got used to it I rather liked it. It makes him seem solid and mature. I look at Cole across the table, only to find him staring back at me, puzzled. I realize they’re waiting for me to answer.

“Oh. I’m sorry. No, he didn’t clarify . . .” My voice trails off and I swallow, but Mr. Gamel just smiles, his thin lips stretching over sharp little teeth.

“Then allow me. This is just a friendly get-together, as you Americans call it. There is no obligation on either side. Because the interview, if you will, is taking place in public, we will, of course, be very circumspect in what we say. If, after meeting us today, you are still interested in learning more, it will be at a more private venue.”

I frown. “How circumspect do we have to be? How am I supposed to know if I want to learn more if I learn nothing to begin with?”

Mr. Casperson smiles. “Ah. I see Miss Van Housen has the celebrated American candor. I like it. We Scots are also rather direct. Ask away. The Society for Psychical Research is a public organization. For the most part.” He gives me a jolly wink and I’m not sure whether to smile or be offended.

My mind blanks. I know I have questions that need to be asked, important ones. But I can’t seem to think of a single one.

I’m saved as the waiter lays out silver platters of tiny tea sandwiches, scones, and clotted cream. Mr. Gamel holds the tray of sandwiches out to me and I take several.

As I spread my scone with jam and serve myself a generous dollop of the cream, my mind races, trying to think of a question, any question. In spite of my hunger, everything tastes like sand. Desperately, I take a swallow of tea and it burns my tongue. A question pops into my head and I cling to it. “How many Sensitives are there in the Society?”

A volley of glances ricochets around the table and I frown. Simple question, simple answer.

Suddenly I feel Cole sending me a lifeline across the table. It’s like a silver strand reaching in my direction just like we’ve been practicing. He thinks if I can visualize what I’m sensing that I will have better control over it. We used to have to work at it, but even after two months apart, our connection is clear. I don’t really understand it, but I’m grateful for his help. I reach out with my mind and grab the strand.

The effect is immediate. I start to calm as soon as I feel his presence. My anxiety fades and my mind sharpens. Relieved, I turn back to observe the men sitting at the table. All are regarding me with some measure of discomfort.

“That’s a rather difficult question to answer,” Mr. Gamel says.

“I don’t see how. Don’t you track your Sensitives?”

“Of course!” Mr. Casperson says. “They’re a very important part of our research.”

I ignore that, concentrating instead on Mr. Gamel’s face. Though I used to be able to feel the emotions of others only through touch, proximity to Cole has heightened my abilities. Oddly, though, everything feels off right now, as if a telephone operator had somehow mixed up the wires. Mr. Gamel is hiding something. Or is it coming from Mr. Casperson? I look from one to the other, panic blooming in my chest. I’ve always relied on my abilities to assess whatever situation I’ve found myself in. Not being able to use them is rather like missing a limb.

“The number is fluid,” Mr. Gamel cuts in smoothly. “Sensitives are free to come and go as they please, and recently that number has fluctuated quite a bit.”

“Why do you think that is?” Cole asks, with a look at me.

Mr. Gamel shrugs his bony shoulders. “Who knows?” He turns to me. “As Cole is aware, Sensitives are not always reliable. It’s hard to tell what motivates them to go or stay.”

Yet another volley of glances sets my suspicions to soaring.

Cole gives a thin smile. “Perhaps Sensitives wouldn’t be so willing to leave if they were treated as if they had value. We’re not rats in a laboratory.”

“No one thinks of you like that, my dear boy.” Mr. Casperson jumps into the conversation.

“I would like to think no one thinks of anyone like that, but that’s not what I’ve been hearing.” Cole’s disquiet reaches me, but his voice is matter-of-fact and I marvel at his control.

Mr. Gamel nods. “I know some Sensitives are unhappy with some of the new rules we have put into place, but in all honesty, we are only trying to do what is best for both the Sensitives and the scientists. Without the research, we don’t know how to best assist Sensitives in their quest to control their abilities. Without the scientists, the research that helps Sensitives would not happen. Of course, without Sensitives, there is nothing to research. The recent changes in policy reflect our desire to balance everyone’s needs.” Mr. Gamel looks to me. “Miss Van Housen, as Colin is aware, many Sensitives come to us broken and without hope. Not many are as lucky as you have been, to reach adulthood with all your mental faculties intact. We have given hope to many Sensitives and have recently retained a psychiatrist to help us in our endeavor. On the other hand, we need to be able to conduct our research as well. So, you see our dilemma?”

He shrugs as if hopelessly caught between altruism and furthering mankind’s knowledge. He feels sincere, but Cole’s dark eyes show his misgivings.

I’ve had enough. I don’t know what is going on, but I just want to get out of here.

I stand, even though there’s food still left on my plate. Mr. Gamel looks up at me, surprised. “I would like to meet with you again at the Society, but right now I have another appointment.”

The men stand and Mr. Casperson knocks over a chair in his haste. “But we haven’t had a chance to talk about your abilities,” he says, righting his chair.

I smile. “Just as you have things you wish to be discreet about, I do as well. Thank you very much for seeing me. Good day, gentlemen.”

Cole follows me out of the hotel and down the street. Darkness is falling and the lamps on the motorcars cast strange shadows on London’s buildings, until I finally lean against a brick wall and take several deep breaths.

“What happened in there?” Cole asks, concern written across his handsome face. He looks like a professor with his forehead furrowed and a frown creasing his lips, and my own mouth curls in spite of my unease. I slip my hand into his and he smiles back, though the worry lingers in his eyes.

“I’m not sure. I was nervous. I couldn’t think.” That isn’t exactly how it felt, but as I can’t really describe the odd sensations I was having, I leave it at that.

“Do you feel better now?” he asks anxiously. “Let’s get you back to the hotel.” He hails a taxicab and climbs in next to me.

He’s so attentive; the odd confused feeling I had fades as we get farther and farther from the restaurant. “Are any of those men Sensitives?” I ask. That’s the only explanation that makes sense considering how quickly I’m recovering. Of course, the only person who has ever altered my abilities is Cole, but then, I’ve never really been around other Sensitives. I don’t know how my abilities would react.

Cole shakes his head. “No. I knew them all before I went to the States. I would have been able to tell. What did you think of them? Did you sense anything?”

I shrug. “I was too busy being a nervous wreck to get a clear read on anyone.”

He nods. “That’s what I thought might happen.” He’s silent for a moment. “Do you have rehearsal now?”

“Not until this evening.”

The taxi stops in front of my hotel and Cole leaps out to open my door. I exit and shiver as a gust of cold wind hits me. He reaches down and pecks my cheek. Returning to his country seems to have increased his shyness. I wish he would just take me in his arms to reassure me, but he only pats my arm distractedly.

“I’ll call the hotel tomorrow and leave a message once they get back to me. You get some rest before your rehearsal, all right?”

I nod and watch as his motorcar chugs off. My nerves are as unsettled as the weather, and for the very first time I almost wish my mother were here. Then I shiver, knowing how uneasy I must be feeling to wish such a thing. Superstitiously, I take it back, knocking quickly on the wooden doorjamb of the hotel door before entering.

Mother is the last thing I need right now.