Tennyson held his hands up, palms out.
“Just making sure,” he said, gently, calmly . . . as if approaching a cornered wild animal.
“I’m fine!” she snapped.
Which, everyone knows, is the classic sign ofnotbeing fine.
What was going on here? Obviously, lightning triggered something for her.
Silence.
Branwell cleared his throat. “Uhmmm, should we be concerned about the random appearance of a thunderbolt beside your bed?”
Chiara gave a tenseI dunnoshoulder shrug before sitting in an overstuffed chair.
“Let’s see what you hear,” she said.
She chewed on her lower lip, eyes glued to the paper lightning.
Mmmm. The thunderbolt meant something to her. Was she in trouble?
Scratch that. Chiara wasalwaysin trouble. The better question: Was Chiara intoomuch trouble?
Branwell set the paper lightning bolt carefully on a side table, studying it. His GUT involved sound. If he touched an object with any part of his bare skin, he would hear what had happened around an object at the moment of its last alteration.
“You ready?” Branwell asked me.
I nodded, glancing at the scar in the corner.
Branwell pulled a glove off his right hand and carefully touched a corner of the paper. Silence hung as he bent over the object.
I stared at the scar.
At first, nothing changed.
And then . . . the scar pulsed. Like a heartbeat. The edges fluttered slightly . . . curtains in an unfelt breeze.
But nothing opened. No black miasma. No dark oily tar intent on trapping me. No Chucky-slime.
Branwell removed his hand, raising his head.
The scar reverted to a hovering, motionless state.
Interesting.
“Well?” Chiara asked Branwell.
“I heard the sounds of scissors and paper rustling. Harsh breathing that could be male or female. That’s all.” Branwell lifted his head, drilling his sister with serious eyes. “Care to tell us what’s going on?”
Chiara blinked at her brother. And then blinked again. Her bravado . . . crumpled. I saw in her eyes a frightened, worried girl, unsure and so vulnerable.
The transformation was so thorough and complete, my phantom heart stuttered. I had never seen her like this. So alone and hurt.
My chest deflated.Oh, Chiara—
But between one breath and the next, she reeled it all in, slamming down a curtain of swagger.
“I . . . uhm . . .” She swallowed and then laughed. “It’s a long story.”
