“You see your abilities as problems?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“So you embrace your gifts?”
“You make it sound like I’m some telepathic wizard or something. It’s not like that. And my only problem is that it’s hard to focus sometimes.” And to trust. And to make decisions. I moaned. I was too tired for alien psychotherapy. “Look, just spit it ou—”
“What if we could help you concentrate? Live a more integrated life?” He scribbled a couple of lines: I may have your answers. I am not a book. My eyes narrowed, and he reached for my right hand, cautiously as if not to spook me. “We need to understand what is happening during your sleep.”
“Why?” I watched as he rubbed his thumb along the back of my hand. “They’re just dreams. Everybody dreams—even animals.” His touch was too personal, but the gentle friction was oddly compelling. “Don’t you dream?”
“Why are you lying to yourself? You resist the obvious,” he turned my hand over, and traced the three scars that now crossed my index to ring fingers. “Why do you not want to know?”
I shivered and pulled my hand free, but he had found his opening.
“When she was young, Madeline would have demanded to be present when Cara and her child were returned.” He held up a hand and forestalled my protest, “And once a mother, she would have demanded to know every detail and would not have taken my word for it. She would have called the man she loves, to be certain that he and his family were safe—unless she had seen it was so with her own eyes.”
My mouth opened and closed, but there were no words to voice.
“And if a . . . misunderstanding . . . had occurred . . . ” he pulled my hands into his again, this time with a tight grip that forced me to look at him, “ . . . she would have demanded that I explain how she could trust me to protect her child when I had failed her so terribly.
“She would have been harsh, and quite thorough in her condemnation.” He tried to smile, but it only made him look sad. “And if it had happened to someone else, someone she loved, she never would have forgiven me.”
The silence after he spoke was surreal, yet peaceful. Pebbles was purring contentedly, blinking reassurance to me. There were no sounds from the bedroom. The buzzing had faded away without my notice. A flame popped and sizzled through an imperfection in a candlewick. Sal’s breathing was quiet, but powerful within the rise and fall of his chest, and I realized that it was his strong pulse I felt at my wrists.
Nebulous protests and rebuttals swirled in my mind; but there was only one thing I could say. And one thing he needed to know. I freed my hands and took the notepad from him.
“Keep talking.” I am not her.
✽✽✽
Her internal struggle was far from quelled, he was sure; yet his instincts had been right. Physical connection mattered more to her than she consciously acknowledged. Perhaps because she had such difficulty controlling her transits. And the Servants had been correct, her relationship with her grandmother was a useful pressure point.
“Madeline would also have demanded to know who the father of her child was—unless she already knew.”
Her back straightened, and the candlelight cast savage shadows across her jawline and cheekbones. Loose strands of her upswept hair glowed like hot wires, but her lips were thin like bars of iron.
“I am not my grandmother.”
“No, you are not. Your capacity for empathy runs deeper, which allows you great insight . . . but also leaves you vulnerable.” The moment he had Transitioned, her lips had been soft under his. “She did not intend to dominate your spirit; she was trying to keep my kind from taking notice of you.”
“Your kind.” Her eyes glinted in the light and then looked downward at his chest.
“You know the truth when you hear it.” Guilt and desire vied for his attention, but he refused to succumb. “What do you see?”
“I see . . . ” A sigh of frustration. “I see a lonely man.”
He grunted. Her gifts made her far too susceptible.
Lips pursed, she took the pen from his hand. Holding the paper close to her body, she wrote and then revealed her thoughts. Eileen was not your experiment. You are protecting someone. Your mother?
How to respond? Unlike her namesake, Lila would willingly help them. She did not want to hear her truth, and yet she refused to accept the believable lie.
“Your data is faulty.” Her eyes widened, and he tried to rush past his error. “Your angels seem to have—”
“Why would you say that? Are you saying my mem—I remember living here! In this house.”
“Yes, you communicated that . . . ”
“With my mother and father. He built this house.”
“He did.”
“For her,” she pushed.
“Yes.”
“And we lived here.”
“Why are you repeating yourself?”
“Because you’re lying.”
“What have I said that is untrue? I have agreed with you on everything.” He was tempted to gather a few of her books and spread them before her, and he knew he would be chastised for not simply informing her, but he knew from experience what could happen if a human was forced into acceptance.
“Y-you’re right. I’m sorry, I don’t . . . ” She looked away to the closed bedroom door. “I should check on Eileen.”
“She is sleeping. Her breathing is even.”
“Are you sure?” When he nodded, she pressed her eyes with her fingertips, and then rubbed her temples.
“What is wrong?”
“Nothing.” She looked around the room. “That buzzing. Where is it coming from?”
Were these aftereffects? Her frame was slight . . . perhaps he had miscalculated the ratio of nutrients needed to restore balance.
“Sorry, I’m just . . . ” her body relaxed against the cushions, “ . . . I should be . . . aren’t you . . . ?” Her eyes rolled up behind fluttering lids.
“Lila!” He grabbed her shoulders, and her fingers moved against his stomach as if
