We all looked at each other.
“I have all day,” Branwell said.
“Lightning is always a concern for us with you.” Tennyson agreed.
“Let it go, you two,” Chiara grumbled.
“Areyou in trouble?” Branwell asked.
A far-too-telling pause.
“Maybe,” she finally said, nibbling on her lip again.
“What did you do?” Branwell’s brow a thundercloud.
Chiara sighed. Of course, she didn’t sigh like a normal person. No, it was a whole body phenomenon. Her arms sprawled out and her head collapsed back and she melted into the chair, exhaling every last molecule of oxygen in her body.
“Can we not talk about this right now?”
“Chiara . . . “ Branwell said warningly.
“I’m not sure. I was hoping you would have more answers. Now I need a couple hours to figure things out, okay?”
“Fine. But I’m not letting this go. You’re into something.”
“When is Chiaranotinto something?” Tennyson asked.
Absolute truth that.
“What about you, Jack?” Tennyson nudged his jaw toward the corner where the scar now hovered. “You’re not screaming or trying to grab onto things, so I assume all was okay?”
I shrugged and explained what I had seen.
“So the scardidreact when I used my GUT?” Branwell asked.
“Yes. But not much. Nothing like Volterra.”
Chiara sat upright and tapped her foot. “Maybe Tennyson is the trigger. Can you force a vision, Tenn?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes.”
Every head swung Tennyson’s way.
Silence again, this time laced with surprised. I had the distinct feeling that Tennyson’s casual admission was something of a milestone.
“Will it . . . unbalance things?” Branwell’s deep bass carried through the room.
Tennyson took in a deep breath. “I should be okay. As I’ve said in the past, the mental fracturing feels like it comes from outside my GUT. Like the visions and stuff are overwhelming and maddening, but I swear the source of my mental instability is outside that. Basically . . . forcing my gift actually doesn’t seem to make the mental fracturing worse, for some reason.”
“Makes sense, I suppose. The vision isn’t catching you off-guard.”
“Something like that.”
“So . . . ?” Chiara’s voice trailed off in a large question mark.
“Let me get settled.” Scrubbing his hands over his face, Tennyson sat down on the large couch. He placed his hands on his thighs.
“What should the question be?” Branwell asked. “It has to be about the future.”
