“Very well,” she said. “Do what you got to.”
Alitz laced her fingers together. “Just relax. You won’t notice a thing,” she said. Her watery gaze sharpened, like a veil had been lifted, and she stared levelly at Ilsa. Pyval, by contrast, relaxed his posture, his gaze hovering somewhere near Ilsa’s feet, his head inclined as if he was listening.
For a few seconds, the only sound was the ticking of the standing clock, and Fyfe, creeping quietly to the nearest couch.
“Well,” Alitz said after a spell. “This ought to be straightforward. You’re rather guarded; that’s a good foundation for those seeking privacy from the likes of a Whisperer. Though, as Pyval points out, it is a hindrance in matters of love and friendship.”
Ilsa glanced to Pyval, certain he hadn’t said a word. But before she could open her mouth and make a fool of herself, it struck her: he did not need to speak aloud. Alitz and Pyval had permission to use their magic now, and they were conversing through their thoughts. She shivered.
“But you were able to read her?” said Fyfe.
“Of course,” said Alitz. She glanced Pyval’s way occasionally as she spoke, perhaps hearing his input. “It takes more than a careful heart to conceal oneself from our magic. We read enough. A frigid mistrust of ourselves, for a start.” When Ilsa opened her mouth to explain, Alitz raised a hand. “No need. We cannot take it personally, having seen who you are. Your thoughts and feelings are buried deep, Miss Ravenswood. Your memories even more so. But your nature is plain to see. You’re wary of others; their motives, their influence… their prejudices. It’s who you are.”
Fyfe cleared his throat, leapt from the couch, and started buttoning his jacket. “Perhaps you’d be more comfortable if I left,” he said to Ilsa.
“No, stay,” she replied, her eyes on Alitz. Fyfe had guessed correctly that if she was going to be dissected, having him there would be uncomfortable, but it was also another line of defence. She didn’t want to be outnumbered. “Go on.”
“Very well. You present a front,” continued Alitz, “because you find it advantageous to be appealing, and you’re not afraid of a little dishonesty, if it gets you what you need.”
Was it any defence that she had needed these qualities to be a magician’s assistant? Ilsa didn’t get the chance to find out before Alitz continued.
“You feel misunderstood, and you fear it is your own doing; perhaps a product of your propensity to conceal yourself, and to withhold trust. And yet you have the vulnerable heart of the young woman you are.” Alitz paused. Perhaps Ilsa couldn’t feel the Whisperer’s magic, but she knew Alitz was reaching deep into her psyche all the same. She wanted to slam the door and shut her out. “Whatever made you so thoroughly cynical has not destroyed you yet.”
Fyfe averted his eyes, but Alitz and Pyval extended no such courtesy. They had stripped her of her armour of charm and confidence, laid her bare, and were watching her like a specimen under glass. The heat of scrutiny burned Ilsa to the core, and she threw water on it the best way she knew how: she squared her shoulders, slipped on a mask, and forced herself not to feel.
“You ain’t told me nothing I don’t already know,” she lied.
“Good,” said Alitz happily. “To know one’s own mind is the first defence against telepathy. As for your more immediate thoughts” – she turned to Fyfe – “your little princess is remarkably hard to read. And her current state of mind is an utter mystery to me.”
“How d’you know I ain’t just dim?” said Ilsa. “Hypothetically speaking.”
“She’s not,” said Fyfe quickly, but he was ignored.
“The same way I know you have a rich imagination. I cannot see your thoughts very clearly but I know they are there. Imagine the mind as a spider’s web. Everything in it is connected and held together by the silk of the self; your identity, if you will. When I venture into your mind, I land in the centre of the web. If I reach further I can see towards the edges. Your mind is large, Miss Ravenswood, and the imagination has a distinctive pattern. These are things one cannot learn to obscure from a Whisperer; only what the web holds.”
“And as for… the rest?” said Fyfe, rubbing his unruly hair.
“I’m getting to that. Miss Ravenswood, I’m now going to try and place a thought in your mind. I’m telling you so that you might recognise how it differs from your own, organic thoughts.” Her lips twitched. “At least, you might be able to look back on it and tell, though I’m sure it will feel genuine at the time. Like a dream.”
Ilsa, caught halfway between her eagerness to learn and her feeling of being violated, tried to relax. Perhaps if she thought of something else, she could both distract herself and notice when the usurper thought snuck in. She went straight to a faithful daydream: her supper.
“It’s not as easy as one may think,” said Alitz abruptly, “to notice when one’s thoughts have been tampered with.”
“But—”
“You were thinking of roast beef, yes?” She raised an eyebrow.
Ilsa scowled. She had liked it better when she was good at this. “My thoughts go to roast beef just fine on their own. Try another one.”
“Very well. Pyval.”
Pyval’s expression glazed over as before, but what he did next, Ilsa couldn’t say. She was suddenly absurdly distracted by a beautiful vase on the console behind him. She stepped past Pyval, intent on touching it, perhaps picking it up. Her fingers were about to brush the glossy china when something stopped her. It felt wrong, this distraction that had tugged on her from nowhere; ridiculous even. How did a vase hold any sway over her?
