Healer by Peter Dickinson

at her twice—but uniforms did something for some girls. He felt the familiar mild glow of interest—something like an intelligent electric heater might feel when it’s first turned on, he’d often thought.
    As he crossed with his empty tray to the counter, he made a deliberate effort to decide whether there was any of that in what he felt about Pinkie. More and more, since Mr. Stott’s warning, he had come to realise what most people would think and say if a sixteen-year-old boy ran off with a ten-year-old girl—kidnapped her, it was going to look like. So it seemed to him important to be sure in his mind that there was no truth in it. He tried to think about Pinkie and compare his reaction with his thoughts (if you could call them thoughts) about Karen. Yes, there was warmth there, and actual physical sensation, slight but real, across his shoulder blades and the back of his neck; with it went a movement in his mind, but again feeling like something physical, something beginning to open … Inside himself he knew it was quite different, nothing to do with sex at all. But yes, there’d be problems persuading anyone. Old Stott had been right about that. He felt depressed as he made his way back to the entrance hail.
    â€œThat’s for you,” said Sergeant Coyne, tapping a white envelope on the counter. It was, too—“B. Evans” in large floppy writing. The card inside said, “Will you please come to tea in the nursery wing today, 4:00 P.M.? Louise Butterfield.”
    â€œWho’s Louise Butterfield?” he asked.
    â€œMrs. Butterfield to you, my lad. She’s a Sphere Three. Lady plays the harp at the sessions.”
    â€œOh. I’ve got to go have tea with her in the nursery wing. Where’s that?”
    Sergeant Coyne couldn’t alter the tone of his voice, but his eyes widened.
    â€œUp the stairs back end of kitchen passage,” he said, “Top floor, turn right. You’ll see a notice says ‘No Unauthorized persons,’ but if you’ve been asked, you don’t have to mind that.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œThat’s where Miss Pinkie lives, see? Mrs. Butterfield watches after her.”
    It was a private apartment. There was a door with a lock to it, a bell push, a peephole. From beyond the door the plinkety sounds of harp scales came faintly, but they stopped at the ring of the bell.
    Mrs. Butterfield opened the door. Barry didn’t recognize her for a moment because she was standing, though with the help of a stick. He’d seen her that morning being wheeled into the Harmony Session and hadn’t realised she could walk. She gave Barry a lovely smile, a typical Foundation smile, full of peace and happiness.
    â€œYou must be Barry,” she said.
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œI’m Louise Butterfield. Pinkie’s told me a lot about you…”
    (False note? A lot—Pinkie?)
    â€œIt’ll be great to see her again.”
    â€œShe’s just getting up from her rest. She seems extra tired today. It was a difficult session.”
    â€œSo I heard. Must be a strain any time.”
    â€œShe’s wonderful how she stands it.”
    â€œRight.”
    Mrs. Butterfield, still smiling, nodded as though they had agreed on something really important, then turned and hobbled down the passage. Barry followed her into a large room brimming with light. The bright-coloured furniture looked used and comfortable. There was a harp by the fireplace and an enormous doll’s house between the windows. Over in the far corner was a desk with schoolbooks on it, a blackboard, a globe of the world.
    â€œI used to be a teacher,” said Mrs. Butterfield. “It’s worked out very luckily—that’s the Harmony, of course. We do our lessons here and—”
    She was interrupted by the crash of the door being flung open. As Barry turned, Pinkie charged headlong into him, the way she