Born of Deception (6 page)

“What are you feeling?” I ask Cole, still not moving.

His forehead furrows. “I’m not sure. It feels like a Sensitive, but it’s no one I know and it’s really soft . . .”—his voice trails off for a moment and when he continues, his voice is so low I barely hear him—“almost like a caress.”

Suddenly annoyed, I break our connection. “That’s not how it felt to me,” I tell him crossly.

He startles. “Pardon?”

I shake my head, not sure what he meant or what I meant or what it was I even felt. The feeling fades and I hope it was just an anomaly.

We eat in silence for a few minutes even though my stomach is rolling.

The waiter takes our terrine and brings us poached sole in hollandaise sauce. My heart sinks. This is supposed to be a special evening for us and here we are practically arguing.

Cole clears his throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound bossy. I just worry. I nearly lost you once, I couldn’t stand to go through that again and if Pratik’s disappearance does turn out to be an abduction, it could mean a reappearance of Dr. Boyle. So please be careful.”

I clear my throat. “Speaking of Dr. Boyle . . .”

His head rises abruptly.

“I thought I saw someone who looked like him today on my way to the Society. It was only for a moment, so I can’t be sure.”

He shakes his head. “Harrison has people all over the country looking for him. We would know if he was in England.” I must look worried because his face softens and he reaches out to touch my hand. “I’ll have Harrison check again, all right? I don’t want you to be worried.”

I melt. I have no defenses against someone who is so very handsome and so very sincere and who cares about me so very much. But I can’t help but feel that coming to London has somehow changed our relationship, and not necessarily for the better.

Five

I
spend another restless night tossing and turning. Cole had kissed me good-bye last night after our dinner, but I could feel his preoccupation. I know he wanted to run by Leandra and Harrison’s to find out if there had been any developments in Pratik’s disappearance, but even though I understood, it still hurt.

The last thing I expect when I finally arise and go to hunt up a late breakfast is Calypso waiting for me in the lobby.

“How did you know where I live?” I ask. I’m actually thankful for her impromptu appearance. Calypso is just the distraction I need.

She grins. “I told you—we’re like a family. Everybody knows everything.”

We head out into the strangely balmy January day. So different from the day I arrived. I ask her if winter in London is always so unpredictable and she shakes her head. “Nope. It’s usually just cold rain, but every once in a while we get a break. Let’s take advantage of it!”

She takes me to Bond Street to window-shop, which Calypso says is more fun than actually buying anything. That’s a relief, since I shouldn’t really spend money anyway. Yes, my mother could now be considered wealthy due to her marriage to Jacques and their successful theatrical management business, but the less money I have to take from them, the more independent of her I am.

Calypso stops at a newsstand. “Oooh! A new issue of
Punch
! I just love
Punch
, don’t you? We can read it over lunch.”

Tucking her arm into mine, she carries on as if we’ve known one another for years. Something about her cheerful attitude reminds me of Cynthia, though the emotional sensations I get from them are very different. Cynthia’s feelings are always simple, direct. Calypso’s are as varied as the wind, always moving from one direction to another. Though her mercurial personality is a part of her charm, I wonder if it won’t get a bit exhausting.

As much as I want to feel the same way about Calypso as she seems to feel about me, I just don’t make friends that quickly. Cynthia was an exception. I’d spent my life skirting the outside of polite society. Girls who worked in circuses, helped their mother set up fake séances designed to cheat people out of money, and escaped from handcuffs for fun weren’t invited to birthday parties given by nice children. Making friends with girls my own age isn’t one of my talents. Cynthia and I became friends simply because nothing gets in the way of what Cynthia wants and for some reason, she wanted me.

So while I’m grateful for Calypso’s ardent offer of friendship, it’s a challenge for me to be as open as she is. It’s just not in me. However, I’m determined to try. I could use a friend in London and at the Society. Aside from Cole, that is.

“Have you heard anything about Pratik?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No. That’s all everyone is talking about right now and my stomach can’t take any more worry.”

For a moment I sense her anxiety and then her mood changes as she sees something in a shop window. She drags me over. “We’re going in,” she informs me.

“I thought the whole point of window-shopping was to not go in,” I protest, but she just laughs, her extraordinary black eyes sparkling.

The inside is done in black and white and minimally decorated—one of those shops where everything screams French and expensive. The kind my mother always wanted to shop at but couldn’t until recently. But the hats are simply lovely. A black felt knockabout with a rolled brim and tangerine and turquoise decorative beading captures my rapt attention.

“It’s beautiful! Try it on,” Calypso urges.

“Oh, I don’t know.” I’m not in love with clothes like my mother is. The deprivation and uncertainty of my early years made stashing money under my mattress more desirable than spending it on dresses. But there are times like this, when I see something that takes my breath away and I understand why some women spend so much money on glad rags.

Calypso takes the hat off the stand. “It’s perfect for you.”

Knockabout hats are sportier than cloches and for a moment I get a vision of wearing it out driving in Cole’s motorcar. I feel myself weaken.

A slim-skirted salesgirl in a rose-colored sweater and a wrist full of bangles joins us. “It would go beautifully with your dark hair and blue eyes. You should try it on.”

I take a deep breath. “I’ll do it.”

We move in front of a mirror and I remove my black cloche with the silk flower on the side. Calypso places the knockabout on my head and then adjusts it.

“Ouch!” I jerk away as my hair is pulled.

“I’m sorry! My ring got tangled in your hair.”

I stare at her for a moment in the mirror. Her eyes are full of apology. “It’s all right,” I tell her even though my scalp still tingles.

Then I look in the mirror and forget about the incident because the hat is perfect, perfect, perfect and I know I have to have it. “How much?” I ask.

“Fifteen guineas.”

I struggle to convert the amount to dollars in my head so I can put it in context. It sounds like an awful lot to me. I turn to Calypso for help, but she’s watching the salesgirl, a look of concentration on her face.

“That’s too much money,” Calypso tells her, a small smile playing about her delicately pink lips.

The woman smiles back, her manner pleasant. “We’re a one-price store. No bargaining.”

Still Calypso stares, her black eyes almost opaque. “No. It’s too much money.”

I take off the hat, staring from one to the other. What’s going on? A tingle brushes across my arms like a prickly caress, and the salesgirl nods sadly. “It is too expensive,” she agrees.

“My friend will pay seven guineas,” Calypso says. The number is half what the salesgirl had named.

“No, it’s fine . . . ,” I start to say, but Calypso holds up her hand and gives me a sly wink. I fall silent, suddenly suspicious.

“Seven guineas is fine,” the salesgirl says. She looks at me, her face still pleasant. “Would you like that in a box?”

Calypso turns to me, her eyes lit with excitement. I feel it shooting off her like sparks. “Oh, wear it out and put your old one in the box. You look smashing!”

I swallow and hand the woman my cloche. I follow as she takes it to the counter at the front of the store and pulls out a sleek black hatbox.

“That will be seven guineas,” she says, putting the hatbox into a bag for me.

Wordlessly, I hand her my money. Calypso is looking at some extravagantly beaded bandeaux near the entrance to the store. I keep one eye on her. She senses my stare and gives me a bandit’s smile.

After paying and taking my bag, Calypso and I walk out the door. “What was that?” I demand the second the door closes behind us.

To her credit she doesn’t try to pretend that she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Instead she shrugs and gives me another cheeky grin. “I influenced her.”

“Excuse me?” I’m no innocent. I’ve seen mesmerism in action, but that woman hadn’t been in a trance.

“I’ll tell you over lunch,” she yells over the loud motor of a truck passing by. “I’m starving!” Calypso takes my arm and darts out into the street, pulling me along in her wake. She expertly dodges the cars bearing down on us and ignores the blaring horns. By the time we reach the other side my heart is racing.

I yank my arm out of hers and she laughs at me. “What? Are you chicken?”

I toss my head but can’t help but grin at her. She reminds me more and more of Cynthia by the minute. What is it about me that attracts such reckless people? “No. I’m cautious.”

“Same thing, if you ask me.” She pulls a door open and we enter a small, elegant little teahouse. The scent of meat pies and freshly baked scones makes my mouth water, but I remain resolute. She is going to tell me what she meant by influencing that salesgirl. We remove our coats at the table, and I notice she’s wearing a brightly patterned yellow and orange silk shift. The colors highlight her exotic beauty, making her skin glow. Again her hair is tied back from her face with a ribbon and it cascades in a shining mass down her back. Even though I’m wearing a modish Chanel-style suit, I feel frumpy next to Calypso’s fresh, girlish grace.

After we order, Calypso pours the tea into our delicately painted teacups. I stare at her without touching my cup until she gets the message.

“Oh, fine,” she says with an exaggerated sigh, looking like a scolded child. “We’ve never spoken about our abilities, so how would you know? I can influence people. Not all the time, and not with everyone, but often enough to make it a true ability. It’s like putting them in a trance or something.”

She looks away and I open myself up to her but sense no deceit.

“How old are you?” I ask suddenly.

Her brows arch, surprised by the question. “Almost seventeen.”

Just a bit younger than I am. “How long have you known about your ability?”

Her fingers trace the rim of her cup for a long moment. “I guess I’ve always been able to do it. My mother was easy. She would tell me I couldn’t have another tart and I would wish for another one with all my heart and then she would change her mind. I didn’t understand what I had done. I thought my wishes just came true a lot and considered myself lucky. I guess I was about seven when I began to experiment with it.”

“And you say it doesn’t work all the time?” My abilities are hit-and-miss as well, though under Cole’s tutelage they’re becoming more consistent.

She shakes her head. “No. It confused me for a long time until I realized that my abilities won’t work on anyone with a high level of spirituality or on other Sensitives.” She must have seen my confusion because she laughs. “I was sent to a Catholic boarding school when my parents became estranged. Wishing didn’t work on ninety percent of the nuns.”

I smile and feel the tension I’ve felt since the millinery shop draining away. There’s nothing sinister about her abilities. Calypso is rather like a kitten: playful and affectionate but never letting you forget about the claws. Considering my mother and my gun-toting best friend, would I even like someone without claws?

“What’s really frightening is the ten percent of nuns that your abilities did work on!” I say. “What was wrong with them?”

She giggles. “I know. What were nonspiritual nuns doing teaching school?”

“Who knows? And, Calypso?” I look her straight in the eye and her face stills. “Next time don’t influence someone to give me a cheaper price. I’d rather just pay for my hats.”

Her shoulders slump, but then she brightens. “Let’s talk about you now. What are your abilities?”

I hesitate.

“Oh, come on. I told you mine.”

“I can channel the dead.” I give her what I consider the least of my talents. My habit of self-protection is too strong to allow me to offer complete disclosure.

Calypso’s eyes glitter with excitement. “What a fantastic ability! How often do you do it? Is it hard? I would love to be able to talk to the dead! Can you imagine talking to Aristotle? Or Catherine La Voisin, or Morgan le Fay!”

“Isn’t Morgan le Fay just a story?” I ask, trying to remember my Tennyson.

“Oh, no. She’s real. My father once said we were related to her.”

“I always assumed the Arthur stories were just legends.”

Calypso shakes her head. “Don’t let any red-blooded Englishmen hear you say that.”

“So you’re English, then?” I ask.

“Half English. My father was born here, but my mother is originally from Trinidad and moved to Greece as a child.”

I nod. That explains the accent.

“Why are we talking about me again? I want to know about you. Who have you talked to?”

For a minute I’m confused, until I realize she’s talking about dead people. I shake my head, not wanting to tell her that I’ve only done it once. “It’s not that simple. And I don’t know how to control it either.”

A waitress serves our meat pies and we dig in. I’m half hoping that’s the end of the questions, but it’s not.

“So you’re like me. Is that why you want to be a member of the Society? To learn control?”

“Partly. Though I’ve learned a lot of control working with Cole.”

“Cole is wonderful, isn’t he? I’ve only met him briefly since he’s been back, but he is so nice. And handsome! Are you two close, then?”

It’s a normal reaction, but my insides knot up in a tangle of jealousy. Mortified, I glance down at my half-eaten meat pie, my hunger dissipating as I remember the tension at dinner last night. Cole had sent me a note this morning telling me he was tied up with preuniversity testing and family obligations but would meet me tomorrow night at the theater. I realize Calypso is still waiting for an answer and I give what I hope is a happy smile. “Yes, actually, we are.”

Her brows rise, but she doesn’t comment on my hesitation and instead asks me about my magic act. The conversation moves from that to her life as a child in Greece and by the time we’re finished with our meal, I feel like I’ve made a friend.

She confirms this feeling with her next words. “It’s like we’ve known one another forever. Are you doing anything this evening?”

I shake my head, thinking of Cole’s note. “I’m on my own.”

“Then come to a costume party with me tonight. It will be so much more fun if you come!”

I bite my lip.

“Please? You don’t have to dress up if you don’t want to.”

I nod. I might as well. “All right. Count me in.”

She bounces in her seat. “Wonderful! My friend Cecil and I will pick you up.”

I smile at her enthusiasm, excitement rising in my chest. Well, maybe a night without Cole won’t be so bad. He has his own life apart from me, after all. There is no reason why I can’t have a life of my own, as well.

The car that parks out in front of the hotel is low and sleek. Calypso waves from the back as excited as a child in a parade. She’s dressed like a Gypsy—which, considering her coloring, she actually could be—and, indeed, doesn’t look like she’s in a costume at all. I spent the afternoon putting together my own getup. I had the rather unoriginal idea of going as a magician, so I borrowed a top hat from Sandy and a black evening jacket from Louie, who gave it to me with some trepidation. “You be careful. I feel responsible for you, and these Brit bashes make New York parties look tame.”