Born of Deception

One

A circle of children surround me, their bright faces turned upward, as if eagerly awaiting the cascading lights of a fireworks show. They’re not, of course. The stuffy, proper salon of the Rex would never allow something as gaudy as fireworks to invade its gilded interior. The impromptu magic show I’m performing is probably as garish a display as the ship has ever seen.

“What’s up your sleeve today, miss?” The little boy’s British accent reminds me of Cole, and I smile.

I’d been heading to the upper deck to catch my first glimpse of England when I was waylaid by a mob of beribboned, curly-headed girls and freckle-faced little boys in short pants. It had begun the first day aboard ship, when I’d shown a sobbing child a simple magic trick to help her harried mother. From that moment on, I’d been like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, followed by children wherever I went. They seemed to communicate by some unseen network of signals because they would appear out of nowhere, demanding tricks. I didn’t mind. Performing simple tricks for children is a joy.

The parents adore me only marginally less than their children for keeping their tots so occupied.

“Do another!” demands a little dumpling of a girl, as imperious as Marie Antoinette.

I hesitate, wanting nothing more than to reach the deck of the ship so I can look out toward the land where Cole will be waiting. Racking my brain for something that will appease them, I feel around in the pocket of my winter coat until I locate a rubber hair band. I widen my eyes at them theatrically. “Would you like to see a hair band jump?”

The children clamor their assent and I kneel to their level while their parents look on indulgently.

“Watch carefully,” I instruct.

I slide the band around the base of my pinky and ring fingers. With my other hand, I insert the tips of my pinky, ring, index, and middle fingers into it as well, until all four fingers on the first hand are resting inside . . . from the children’s vantage point it looks exactly the same. When I straighten my fingers, the band appears to jump from the last two fingers to the first two.

They clap, delighted, and my heart warms as I perform the trick several more times. I show them how it’s done and bid them to go practice so they can amaze their friends back home. The children disperse as they run to their parents, begging for hair bands, and I slip away, pleased by the success of my diversionary tactics.

Once on deck, a shiver runs through me, as much from anticipation as from the cold. For the last six days, I’ve been stuck aboard this aging though still beautiful ocean liner, battling an onslaught of emotions as bright and varied as circus juggling pins. The steady rumble and throb of the ship’s steam engines is louder on deck and the sound of the crew working behind me adds to my exhilaration.

The RMS Rex had once been considered equaled in beauty only by the Titanic, whose sinking I’d foreseen in a vision, days before it actually happened . . . not a memory that makes for particularly restful nights aboard ship. And exhaustion hasn’t helped the nerves that have plagued me for the past week.

Brimming with exhilaration and anxiety, I bounce from foot to foot as I spot the bleak British shoreline. It’s been two months since Cole and I have seen one another. Two months since I’ve felt the physical connection that draws us to each other whenever we’re in close proximity.

And two months since I’d felt the telepathic link that we have together as fellow psychics, or Sensitives, as he calls us.

We’d exchanged letters, of course, sometimes two a week, and I imagined them passing one another, quite literally, as two ships that pass in the night. But it’s hard to keep a strong bond that way and at times it felt as if our connection had grown as thin as the paper we wrote on. Cole has a difficult enough time expressing his feelings in person, let alone writing them down. There were times his rather stilted language made me feel as if I were his favorite sister instead of the girl he loved and had kissed breathless on more than one occasion. I need to look into his dark eyes and fall into their velvety warmth. I need to feel the psychic link that makes Cole different from anyone else.

The cold January wind gusts off the ocean and I’m coated with a fine spray of icy salt water. Only a few passengers have braved the frigid weather to look for the the entrance to the River Thames. Maybe like me, they’re novices at luxurious ocean travel and don’t want to miss a single experience. This isn’t my first crossing, but considering the fact that the last time I was traveling in my mother’s womb, everything is new to me.

I draw a deep breath of the frigid, salty air into my lungs, shoring up my resolve. Cole isn’t the only thing waiting for me in England. I’m starting a whole new life, one away from my mother and her husband, Jacques. A life where I’ll be performing my magic onstage in some of the most famous theaters in Europe. I pray that my new boss, Louie Larkin, a man famous for having a nose for talent, will like me.

A young man joins me at the rail. I give him a curious glance, my attention caught by the trilby hat set at a jaunty angle on his head. He turns and my breath catches. I’m only a few feet away from the most handsome man I have ever seen. He looks to be in his early twenties, with eyes so blue they could make the sky jealous. The slow smile he bestows on me lights up his face.

“It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?” he says in a western drawl as leisurely as his smile.

My mouth shuts with a snap and I nod, unable to speak. Then I nearly jump out of my skin as the ship’s horn blows a one-hour warning until landing. His eyes crinkle with amusement. “Excuse me,” I mumble, and flee, the iciness of my cheeks melting from the heat of humiliation.

When will I stop being so awkward around handsome young men? I wonder as I hurry to my cabin. My first meeting with Cole had been equally uncomfortable, only worse because I had never encountered another Sensitive before. The invisible charge that occurred when we shook hands was alarming, to say the least. Of course, as someone who’d mostly been raised on vaudeville circuits, boys as handsome as Cole and the stranger on deck are a rarity for me. Growing up, most of the men I knew well were considered circus freaks or oddities by normal folks. No wonder I’m so clumsy.

I finish packing my things and the porters soon come by to take my luggage. I fret as they wheel away the gleaming wooden trunk with the curved top that nearly reaches my waist. It’s the one I keep my magic props in and a million times more important than the one containing my clothes. I’m sure I could find decent props in London, but it would take too much time and I already have much to do before formal rehearsals start. Deep in the ship’s belly, the levitation table and the iron maiden that Mr. Darby, my dear old neighbor, had made just for me will be taken directly to the theater.

I pull my cloche further down on my head and wrap a scarf around my neck. I hate meeting Cole looking like an Eskimo, but better an Eskimo than an ice block. I gather up my beaded handbag and a small satchel, and then, taking a deep breath, follow the rest of the passengers to the lower deck where we’ll be disembarking.

I tiptoe and squint, trying to spot Cole in the crowd of wildly waving people below the ship, but all I can see are a sea of black bowlers dotted by the occasional bright cloche. Even though I don’t see him, my heart speeds up, knowing he’s there. I had paid extra attention to my appearance that morning, using more than my usual amount of face powder, rouge, and kohl. I bite my lip and wonder if he will greet me with a kiss or if he’ll retreat into reserved shyness as he often does when his emotions get the better of him.

My breath hitches. I hope he kisses me.

It takes the better part of an hour for the sailors to finish mooring the Rex, and my toes and cheeks are numb by the time they’re done. Seasoned travelers, having waited for this moment in the warmth of the salon, join us as we make our long, slow way toward the gangway.

I finally step down onto solid ground and the world tilts just a bit. A sailor reaches out to catch my arm. “Easy now,” he says.

I smile absently, my eyes scanning the crowds waiting to receive us. Wisps of fog settle in, obscuring my view, and I follow the rest of the throng, hoping Cole will be able to find me. London is overwhelming in a way New York never was, and I’m not sure why. It’s not as if they don’t speak English, and yet all around me I hear a hodgepodge of languages, of which English is only one. Cranes tower overhead, waiting to unload the ship’s cargo, and the scent of tar, salt, and fish is heavy in the air. I stop, unsure of which way to go. Suddenly someone is by my side.

“If you’re looking for your party, miss, they may be waiting for you near the entrance of the quay.”

I turn and find myself staring into the blue, blue eyes of the young man I so stupidly ran from earlier. I clear my throat. “I’m not sure where that is,” I say, hoping to redeem myself and show him that I’m not entirely ridiculous. “This is my first time in London.”

He gives me another slow smile. “Mine, too. I asked someone where to get a taxicab and he told me how to get to the street. It’s right this way.” He points with his head, as both of his hands are holding cases.

He navigates the crowd as I fall in behind him. It strikes me that I probably shouldn’t be following a total stranger in such a foreign place, but there’s something about his open face that invites trust. I’m just about to see if I can feel his emotions, one of my psychic abilities, when I hear my name.

“Anna!”

I stop and my savior is swallowed up instantly in the crowd, but I forget that as I am suddenly enveloped in a warm hug that thrills me to the tips of my toes. Cole!

He holds me close for a moment and so many impressions flood my senses I can barely stand upright: the scratchiness of his wool overcoat against my cheek, the sound of my own heart beating in my ears, the warmth and depth of his love, and the excitement of his emotions as our unique psychic link is made. For years I thought I was alone in my abilities and at times I thought they would drive me mad. Then I met Cole and something fundamental inside me shifted.

I was no longer alone.

Now he’s here. His head is bent close to mine and I lift my face to stare into his dark, licorice-colored eyes. They glow at me with that special light they sometimes get, and I tilt my head back, sure he’s going to kiss me. Instead, he pulls back to look at me. My heart dips in disappointment even though I know he has never liked being overtly affectionate in public.

“I thought I would never find you in this crowd,” he says.

I remember the man who had tried to help me and look around to thank him, but he’s nowhere to be found. Then I have eyes for no one but Cole. I had forgotten how tall he is and how the intelligent planes of his face give him the look of a distinguished professor to match his accent.

“London is so big!”

“No bigger than New York,” he teases, and my happiness bubbles over like a glass of New Year’s Eve champagne. Cole turns to a young Indian man who stepped up next to him. The man is dressed in a suit and overcoat like Cole, but instead of sporting a bowler, there’s a white turban clipped together in the front with a gold pin. I look from him to Cole, confused.

“Anna, I would like you to meet Pratik Dahrma, a friend of mine. Pratik, this is my—” he hesitates only for a moment “—girl, Anna Van Housen. I’ve told you about her.”

The young Indian man gives a shy smile, showing teeth as glistening white as the turban on his head. “You have mentioned her much more than a time or two, my friend.” Pratik bows to me. “He has spoken of little else for the past week.”

Red stains Cole’s cheeks and warmth spreads over me. “It’s nice to meet you.” I hold my hand out, but Pratik just looks at it blankly before comprehension dawns and he awkwardly reaches out to shake it.

I feel it the moment our hands touch—that electric sensation I felt when I first met Cole. We both release our hands in a hurry, and I glance at Cole, my breath quickening. He nods, confirming what I already knew. Pratik is a Sensitive.

Pratik appears less than surprised, so obviously he knows about me. I’m not sure how I feel about Cole telling a total stranger a secret I’ve guarded so protectively my entire life. It feels just as odd as him bringing someone else to our reunion. What was he thinking?

He must sense my disappointment because he takes my satchel and tucks his arm into mine. “Pratik and I had a meeting this morning. He still gets lost in the city, so I told him I would drop him off at his flat. I did clarify that we needed to come here first. Nothing could make me late to meet you.”

I perceive the apology in his voice and in the connection running between us. In my head, I always envision it as a silver cord joining us and transmitting our emotions. Cole’s abilities are different from mine—his are limited to detecting the presence of other Sensitives and making their abilities stronger. But those differences don’t seem to affect our ability to communicate on a deeper level than just words. It’s one of the reasons why our relationship is so infinitely precious to me. I give him a reassuring nod. “Of course, I’m eager to meet your friends.”

We begin walking away from the ship and I look across him at Pratik. “Are you new to London, too, Mr. Dahrma?”

“Please call me Pratik,” he says. “And, yes. I have only been here in the city for a short time. Mr. Gamel found me in Bombay.”

He says it like I should know who Mr. Gamel is. I look at Cole, perplexed.

“She doesn’t know anyone in the Society yet,” he tells Pratik.

Pratik tilts his head in apology. “I am sorry. Cole has spoken of you so often, I forget that there is much you do not know. You will like Mr. Gamel. He is a strange man but a good one.”

“Mr. Gamel is the new board president,” Cole says, his voice suddenly tight. “Pratik has a far more charitable view of him than I do.”

“You would too, if he saved you as he saved me,” Pratik says simply.

I wonder what he means as we hurry off to claim my trunks. By the time we pack everything up, the moment to ask Pratik about it has passed and before long we’re riding in Cole’s luxurious motorcar. Being pressed so close to Cole’s side leaves me breathless with that buttery warmth his nearness always generates. It seems odd to be feeling this way with a complete stranger by my side, and an uncomfortable silence falls over us.

“I think you will like the Society, Anna,” Pratik says. “Everyone has been good to me.”

For the first time, I notice hesitation in his manner and I get a strong sense of vulnerability emanating from him. This is a young man who has been deeply hurt by someone or something. As someone who is also distrustful of strangers, that feeling puts me at ease.

“I hope so. I’m a little nervous, actually,” I tell him.

“It is always good to be cautious. Even now that I have been a member for several months, I am still wary. But then that is my nature. It is your nature too, isn’t it?”

Though his words are a question, the look in his eyes is certain, and I wonder suddenly exactly what his abilities are. For all I know, he could be reading my mind as we speak.

I lower my eyes for a moment and then nod. I get the feeling that this man values honesty and transparency above all else. “My mother and I were involved in activities that were less than legitimate. Caution was always valued.”

He nods. “I grew up on the streets of Bombay. My parents left me at the door of an orphanage when I was three. I hated it there and ran away. It was so overcrowded no one bothered to look. I stole for my supper, so being mistrustful was a way of life.”

He relates these facts in the calmest voice imaginable, and my heart goes out to him. “You seem very forthright now,” I tell him.

He gives me a slight smile. “Because I know you are someone I can trust,” he says simply. “Mr. Gamel is teaching me how to control my abilities.”

We pull up and park in front of a brick building before I can ask him what those abilities are.

Pratik opens the door to the motorcar and climbs out.

“It was very nice to meet you, Anna. I will see you at the Society.” He bows his head and, after a little wave, disappears into the building.

“He seems very sad,” I murmur, watching him go.

“He is, but he’s getting better. Mr. Gamel found him in an asylum in Bombay. Can you imagine having your abilities and being completely alone?”

I turn back to Cole, whose dark eyes are pensive. My mother couldn’t nurture a houseplant, but at least she didn’t abandon me at an orphanage. “What are his abilities?”

Cole shakes his head. “It’s hard to explain. He can see the essence or spirit of different people. That’s about as close as I can come to understanding it. But not everyone’s and not all the time. He says they’re like colored smoke or fog around people’s heads. The different colors of smoke mean different things.”

I frown. “And I thought my abilities were odd.”

Cole laughs. “Enough about Pratik. Come here.” His arm snakes around me and pulls me close. “I have been waiting for this since the moment I saw you,” he whispers. Then his mouth comes down on mine and I can hardly think or breathe because my heart is so very full of Cole. As the kiss deepens and my lips part, our psychic connection is so open and clear, it’s as if we are sharing the same soul. It’s like melting into ribbons of chocolate—decadent, lovely, and infinitely sweet. He breaks away and chuckles. “I cannot believe how much I missed you.”

I sit back and smile as he pulls away from the curb. I forgive him for bringing someone to our reunion and for not kissing me the moment he saw me. And as I remember how very far I’ve come from cheating people out of money at my mother’s command and worrying about where our next meal was going to come from, I feel as if I’m about to burst. I’m in London with Cole and will soon be performing my magic onstage.

It is an absolutely perfect moment.

And the perfect moments continue. After settling me in the shabby hotel that will be my home while in the city, Cole and I spend the rest of the afternoon driving around London so I can get acclimated. I gape out my window as we pass iconic sights such as Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, and Big Ben.

“Aren’t we going to stop anywhere?” I ask, my nose pressed to the glass.

“Too many tourists,” Cole sniffs.

I slap him playfully on the arm. “I am a tourist!”

“Another time. I want to show you something special.” He grins at me.

The streets are packed with both people and motorcars, and it’s odd to see Cole driving so confidently through the chaos. Though he’s always been self-assured, there had been something tentative about the way he approached New York and you never forgot he was living in a foreign city. Here in London, a city that feels so alien to me, he’s more comfortable than I’ve ever seen him. He’s at home and I’m the stranger.

The thought unsettles me and I fall silent until Cole parks on a small cobbled street that seems as remote from big city London as a medieval village. “Where are we?” I ask as he opens my door.

“Wanstead. It’s still in London, but on the River Roding. We’re on Nightingale Lane, to be precise.”

That tells me little, but I love the name. “Nightingale Lane,” I murmur, relishing the sound. Would New York have a little street tucked away that looks as if it were straight out of Shakespeare? I wouldn’t think so. The thin winter sun is lowering on the horizon, casting a chilly, enchanted air over the gables and leaded windows predominant in this ancient neighborhood. I follow Cole across uneven cobblestones into a building on the corner. A wooden sign hanging over the door reads Mob’s Hole in fancy script.

I suck in a delighted breath as my eyes adjust to the dim interior. We’re in a large and spacious pub with heavy wooden tables and low, dark timbers on the ceiling. An enormous stone fireplace in one corner looks as if it were made for large cast-iron pots of simmering stew, while I imagine the long bar against the opposite wall has seen thousands of pints slide across its age-polished top. The gleaming wood stairs to the left of the front door even have dips in the middle of each tread from the countless steps of countless weary travelers. The scents of age, grease, and burning wood lie as heavy in the room as the smoke curling off the pipes of the old men playing chess in the corner.

“It’s not much,” Cole says as we take a seat near the crackling fire, “but they have the best chips in London.”

I detect the concern in his voice. “It’s wonderful,” I assure him.

He gives me a relieved smile. “I love this place. I was worried that maybe you would have rather gone to some fancy club to dance or something.”

I shake my head. “This is perfect. I’d rather you showed me places that are important to you.”

Cole looks down, tracing a knot on the table with his fingers. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. I planned to bring you here, but when I saw you standing on the dock, looking so lovely and American modern, I started doubting myself.”

Tenderness fills my heart. Why had I been so worried? Cole’s reserve is how he masks his painful shyness around most women. Only with me does he let down his guard. I reach out and touch his fingers.

He looks up and his sudden smile softens the dignified planes of his face. “I’m so happy you’re here,” he says softly before the waitress reaches our table.

He says it again before kissing me good night outside my hotel. I nod in assent, but as I make my way up to my room I realize that happy doesn’t even come close to describing how I feel.

Blissful. I feel blissful.