Born of Deception by Teri Brown Page A

size.
    “I have an extra one just like it in my room. We’ll go get it after our cake.” She leads me swiftly down a narrow street flanked by three- and four-story buildings, so close together they almost blot out the sky. These gracious old structures would be architectural wonders anywhere else in the world, but the people here live, fight, give birth, and die in them as if they aren’t anything unusual. I have no time for lollygagging, though, as the street is busy with motorists, and I’m delighted to see a double-decker bus splashing toward us. Calypso waits until it goes by and then once again we risk life and limb by darting across the thoroughfare, dodging traffic. She ignores the number of horns honking at us and steps up onto the sidewalk as if that’s a normal occurrence. Perhaps it is.
    She takes me through a narrow door with panes of glass so old they look wavy, and I’m immediately assailed by the warm, yeasty scent of fresh bread. She shuts her umbrella and points me in the direction of one of the empty, chipped café tables in front of the shop. “Go sit and I will order us the best hot chocolate and chocolate cake you have ever tasted.”
    I sit at one of the small tables in front of a large bay window that is so steamy from the heat of the ovens in the back that it’s impossible to see through. The bakery is warm and cozy and just perfect for a gray, drizzly afternoon. I slip my coat off my shoulders and take the cup Calypso offers. The chocolate is hot and comforting and I bless the person who made it.
    By the time she returns with the cake, I am already feeling much better. She sets the slice between us and hands me a fork. Her hair is plaited loosely in the back with a ribbon, and dark waves frame her face. She still looks tired, but less worried.
    I take a sip of my hot chocolate and close my eyes for a moment, enjoying the creaminess.
    She laughs. “I told you it was good. Try the cake.”
    I take a forkful of cake and then nod as a velvety sweetness spreads through my mouth. “You were right. It’s delicious.” We smile at one another and I feel a discernible lightening of the emotions between us.
    I’m suddenly curious about this girl who is fast starting to fill the void created after saying good-bye to Cynthia. “I take it you don’t have family here?”
    The drop in her mood is so sudden, I look up from the cake, startled.
    Her mouth twists. “I do but we’re estranged. My mother is in the States.”
    Her expression is closed, and I know I shouldn’t pry but am compelled to ask, “And your father?”
    “My father is here in London, but we don’t speak.” Her smile is grim. “I take after him in many ways and he can’t accept the fact that I may be as talented or more talented than he is.”
    My eyes widen. “Is he a Sensitive?”
    She snorts. “No. He’s an in sensitive.”
    “Is that why you stay in a boardinghouse?” I’m curious about her life. She’s younger than I am but seems both childish and ageless at the same time.
    She nods. “The Society rents rooms for us in a house not too far from their old office. It’s a nice place and it’s ever so much better than staying with my father in the mausoleum.”
    She gives an exaggerated shudder.
    I frown. “Do all the Sensitives live there? At the boardinghouse?”
    She nods.
    “Then why was Pratik staying with Mr. Gamel?”
    She presses her lips together. “I’m not exactly sure. He didn’t make friends easily.”
    She stands and puts on her coat. “Are you finished?”
    I nod reluctantly. The thought of going out into the rain doesn’t hold much appeal, but impatience is shooting off her in little sparks. So I crawl into my coat before heading back out into the drizzle.
    I follow her through a maze of narrow streets, and traffic becomes scarce. Black umbrellas bob along the sidewalks like a funereal march of mushrooms. The rain has lessened, but one can hear the dripping as if the world is so saturated that