Teri Brown: Born of Deception

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.