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“Clowns are your cure for a nightmare?” Evie said from the couch, where she lay half-sprawled again, legs crossed, one leg kicking out and back. “Never, ever say that to me inside one of my dreams, Henry. Promise me.” She shivered. “Clowns.”
“Henry can’t move after a dream walk,” Theta volunteered. She sat at the long table with her chair close beside Memphis’s. “Sometimes it’s as long as five minutes. I get really worried about him.”
“Ling? Any of those same troubles for you?” Sister Walker asked.
“No. I’m fine afterward,” Ling said with a note of stoic pride.
Sister Walker took this down, too. “What else? Anyone?”
“After an object reading, I get the granddaddy of skull-bangers,” Evie said.
Sam stroked his chin. “You know, Miss Walker, it’s the darnedest thing, but I seem to be getting more irresistible every day. Golly, is that a side effect of my gift?”
“I believe it’s a side effect of your ego,” Evie said, punctuating it with a generous eye roll.
Jericho laughed out loud at that, something he rarely did. It pleased Evie.
“Wasn’t that funny,” Sam grumbled.
“Yes, it was.” Jericho gave Evie a sly glance. She returned it with a raised brow, enjoying the guilty pleasure of this small, secret exchange.
Memphis cleared his throat before charging into the fray. “During the Pentacle Murders, Isaiah had some bad nightmares. He’d wake up in the night shaking with visions. He even predicted Gabe’s death,” Memphis said, his heart sinking at the memory of his murdered best friend.
“I don’t remember it so much, though,” Isaiah said. “Don’t remember what happens during my fits, either.”
“Well. We’ll see if we can get you stronger so that you can remember more and not be bothered by those seizures any longer. Sound fair?” Sister Walker said gently. “In fact, I hope that by working on your powers daily and in new ways, we’ll strengthen all of you and eliminate any troubles you might be experiencing. We’ll work with you alone, in pairs, and as teams to see how your gifts interact, whether you increase each other’s powers or perhaps affect one another negatively.”
“Like atoms with the potential to attract or repel,” Ling said. “To create energy.”
At the word attract, Evie glanced sidelong at Jericho where he leaned against the wall, arms folded across his broad chest, head tilted slightly back so that he could look down at everything from under those somewhat sleepy eyelids, remote, like a god from on high. The curve of his throat was inviting. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him there.
“Do you like science, Ling?” Sister Walker asked, mercifully pulling Evie’s attention back to the group.
“Science is what she lives for,” Henry said.
A smile lit up Sister Walker’s face. “Then you’ll have to let me know your thoughts as we proceed. Here. Take this for making notes.” She handed Ling a small leather-bound book and a pencil.
“Thank you,” Ling said, blushing.
“Don’t thank me yet. I’ll expect things from you,” Sister Walker said.
“Ooh. Teacher’s pet,” Henry whispered.
“Not all of us get expelled from prep school,” she shot back.
Henry nodded appreciatively. “Touché.”
Ling cracked open the notebook, inhaling the scent of good leather and of the possibilities lurking in all those blank pages. She was embarrassingly proud of the attention from Sister Walker. Back on Mott Street, everyone knew that Ling could walk in dreams and speak to the dead, but no one really understood her love of science or how those worlds could coexist when to Ling they were simply different sides of the same coin, the exploration of equal mysteries. Sister Walker had the same two passions. Ling sensed in her a kindred spirit. The notebook was acknowledgment: I see you. I know you.
Isaiah was bored. Sister Walker said they’d test powers, but so far it was just a bunch of talking. He’d never been in a place as fascinating as the museum, and he wanted to explore everything in it. While Sister Walker and Will asked the others a series of questions, Isaiah wandered over to the fat chest between the windows so he could get a closer look at the instrument sitting on top of it: a small wooden box with a hand crank on the side and, on its face, a needle that measured in tens from zero to eighty. It looked as if someone had tried to make a cuckoo clock with a speedometer. Isaiah ran a finger across the dark filament of the bulb in the instrument’s center. Then he turned the crank, and it flared briefly, the needle tipping up the scale to thirty with an electric scratching sound. Isaiah jumped back, and the machine calmed.
Isaiah put up his hands. “I didn’t do anything!”
“Careful,” Will said, marching toward Isaiah.
Now that Isaiah knew he wasn’t in trouble, his curiosity took over. “What is it?”
“It’s called a Metaphysickometer,” Will said.
