The Shimmers in the Night

Four

Cara went to supper at a long table in the Institute's kitchen, a room that was so big she couldn't see all of it at once. It was down several flights of stairs from the room under the high dome—in the core of the building, as Mrs. O called it.

There was the "core" and the "shell," she'd told Cara as they came in; the core was the old part and the shell was the new, which looked like a thousand other office buildings. Like the rest of the rooms in the core, the kitchen had no windows, but there were open fireplaces at each end. And there was an actual stone floor with big gray flagstones, which made her wonder how many floors there could be beneath it. After all, a stone floor had to be heavy.

The table was lined with adults she assumed were teachers. She sat down beside Mrs. O, and someone handed her a plate with spaghetti and sauce on it, then a small bowl full of grated cheese with a delicate silver spoon. Cara was reaching for the spoon, idly wondering why the parmesan wasn't just in a green-plastic shake container like it should be, when it occurred to her that half the teachers could be reading her mind at that very instant.

Her hand went a little limp.

"So—if some of the people here are mindreaders," she said under her breath to Mrs. O, "does that mean they're reading me right now? Because with Jax..."

"No, dear, we have an amnesty," said Mrs. O, smiling. "What Mr. Sabin was talking about. Amnesty's what we call it between friends. We don't use the old ways on each other unless there's either a clear crisis or a personal understanding. That's why we didn't find out about Roger until you told us. We don't read people as a matter of course—only when we feel we have no other choice."

"In that case," said the bearded teacher with the glasses, "we erred on the other side, didn't we? Big mistake. We were so busy with Jax, we didn't bother to read you. Or we might even have caught up to Roger."

"In other words, don't worry," said the teacher with the neatly cut silver hair. "You'll have the usual amount of privacy while you're eating your spaghetti."

"Unless you do something that enrages us, that is," said the bearded teacher, jokey. "By the way, I'm Glen. Or Mr. Trujillo, if you prefer. Like the despot."

Cara went to reach for the spoon again, but the bowl of parmesan had already moved down the table. Still, she was too hungry to wait, so she started to eat without it.

"I didn't get to tell Jax this," she said slowly, twirling spaghetti on her fork as Mrs. O poured herself a glass of red wine from a fat-bottomed bottle in the middle of the table and Mr. Trujillo, across from them, forked up salad in a messy way that left white dabs of dressing on his beard. "But I have a question about something I saw? In a—I guess it was a vision?"

"Go on," said Mrs. O.

"Spill it," said Mr. Trujillo.

"So the vision was—well, I saw this man in a subway train, and it seemed to me he was following me. We were alone in the subway car. I have this ring my mother gave me, and when I looked at him and touched the ring, he opened his mouth..."

The teachers were both waiting, gazing at her.

"...and it looked like there were these flames in there."

Mr. Trujillo let his fork hand rest on the edge of the table, the lettuce sticking out and trembling a bit.

Mrs. O put her wine down and swallowed.

"A vision of a Burner," she said quietly.

Mr. Trujillo raised his napkin with his free hand and patted at his beard.