“He’s told me the same.”
“Would you please touch Foster? I’d like to know if certain . . . modifications I’ve implemented are as pain-free as I’d intended them to be.”
“That is not necessary,” Foster said in that low growl of his. “I have no complaints.”
“For me,” Welton asked. Then, with all the maturity of a seven-year-old: “Please?”
Foster sighed and walked over to me, his boots loud and heavy on the floor. He stood in front of me, and I had to tip my head up to meet his gaze.
“Thank you, Matilda Case,” he said. He offered his hand, and I took it.
His shoulders stiffened and he sucked in a hard breath. The skin around his neck pulled against the thick yellow threads there, and he moaned softly.
I quickly drew my hand back.
“Does it hurt?” Welton asked, immediately on his feet and moving toward him.
“Not pain,” Foster said, as Welton pressed his fingers at different points on Foster’s hand, arm, chest, and back. Foster caught the slighter man’s hand in the ham fist of his own. “Peace.”
“I might ask you to do that again, Matilda,” Welton said, not looking away from Foster. “Maybe after the gathering and under more controlled conditions.”
“Unnecessary,” Foster rumbled.
“That regulator shouldn’t be popping like that,” Welton said. “And it’s something easily adjusted so it won’t cause you pain, whether you feel it or not. After the gathering, we will see to it. Please,” he added kindly. “For me.”
“You are my House,” Foster said. “If it is your wish.”
“It is my wish.” He patted Foster’s arm.
“So, what do you think this means, Welton?” Dotty asked. “I suppose a genius such as yourself has more than one theory on Matilda’s effect on us.”
“And you would be right,” he said. “We know each of you lived at the same time, in the same area, before the Wings of Mercury event occurred.”
“I’ve heard of that,” I said. “Wings of Mercury. Abraham mentioned it.”
Welton nodded. “We have stories passed down from person to person, town to town, or the occasional line in a diary or footnote in a published journal. A scientist searching for the secrets of immortality built a great machine to control time. When that machine was engaged, every living creature in a fifty-mile swath was struck down dead.
“Except for twelve people. Six men, six women. They still breathed, though it was as if they had been sent into a deep sleep. There was also rumor of one child who never woke from that sleep and did not age.”
He stopped and watched my reaction. Everyone in the room was watching me.
“I’m that child, aren’t I?”
“We can’t be sure,” he said. “We don’t know where any of the pieces of you came from. But all signs point to yes.
“If, however,” he went on, “the event was an experiment to control time, the theory goes that it is the reason galvanized brains have survived all these years. Only galvanized brains resist every strain of disease on earth; feel no pain; and are inhumanly strong, adaptive, and infinitely repairable. Only galvanized brains show no sign of aging or decline. Only galvanized are immortal—cheaters of time.”
He spread his hands. “The experiment was a story, a legend. The sleeping immortals who would rise and bring about great change. Save the world. Or end it, depending on which story you preferred. Monsters. Saviors. And like all good legends, it had just enough clues and small truths to lead curious people to concoct theories and exhaustive hunts.
“Eventually, the sleeping immortals were found. Taken in by the scientists of the early twentieth century, and the experiments began.”
Foster First made a low, quiet sound that was almost a moan.
Welton shifted in his chair and patted the big guy’s arm fondly. “Things that will never happen again. Great mistakes were made. But galvanized are strong. The First endured, survived, and eventually fell into much kinder hands.”
Foster First turned his head to stare down at Welton, and his expression was grateful. It made me rethink their relationship. Maybe Foster was happy to be with House Technology. If there were any advancements that could make being galvanized more tolerable, House Technology would be on the leading edge of it. And it did not look like Welton wanted Foster to suffer.
Welton pointed at Foster’s face. “Cocoa on your cheek.”
