Nightingale (The Sensitives) - By Dawn Rae Miller Page 0,102

them defect.

Mother left a fine mess in her wake.

A warm breeze passes over my skin when I stand and walk toward the window. If someone had told me six months ago that this would be my life, I would have laughed. Me, in charge of the State? Ridiculous.

“Lark?” Miss Tully waits by the bedroom door, a saucer and teacup perched precariously on her palm. Part of my agreement with Kyra included the transfer of Miss Tully to my home. Kyra may not have appreciated her, but there’s something comforting about Miss Tully. She reminds me of Bethina, only older.

“Come in.”

She hobbles across the floor like a little mouse and miraculously doesn’t spill a drop of the tea. It’s impressive. She sets it down on the side table.

“Thank you.”

Miss Tully knots her grizzled hands together. “You’re a good girl, Lark.”

I draw my brows together. “Am I?”

“You saved me. It would have been easier to walk away. I know that.”

I huff under my breath. She doesn’t know anything. Especially not the steep price I paid for her freedom.

“That day I found you, I knew there was something unusual about you. Even if you didn’t.” Instead of fear, sadness settles into the creases of her face. Without asking permission, she sits opposite of me.

Deep inside me, something trembles, and a low sob builds. When Miss Tully reaches over and takes my hand, every emotion that’s been locked inside since Mother’s death, rushes out: fear, anxiety, misery. And confusion. So much confusion.

She scoops me into her chest and holds me tight. We sit there, my head pressed against her frail chest, my shoulders heaving, and my tears staining her thin shirt for what seems like hours.

Eventually, I pull away and drag the back of my hand across my face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t behave like that.”

“Never be ashamed of showing your feelings, Lark.” From her pocket she pulls a handkerchief and hands it to me.

Before I can stop myself, I blurt, “I’m a Sensitive.”

Miss Tully braces herself and for a moment, I fear she may have stopped breathing. “Well, that’s not exactly what I meant when I said I knew you were unusual.” Her eyes search my face. “You don’t look frightening.”

An awkward grimace-smile forms on my lips. “You haven’t seen me in action.” My shoulder rises up briefly before falling. “Actually, you have. The storm that hit your home, that was me. Only at the time, I didn’t know it.”

She’s eerily calm. “Kyra and those boys, they’re Sensitives also?”

“Yes.”

“And Tom, her house manager?”

I play with the end of my loose hair. “That was Beck Channing. He has the ability to mask his identity.”

Her mouth drops open. “What in the world is going on? Is he really an enemy of the State or are the two of you working together?”

If Annalise were here, if she tuned into my wristlet and heard this conversation…

“Do you have a full pot of tea?” I ask.

Miss Tully settles back into her seat. “Lucky for you, I do, and I have nowhere to be.”

Maybe Mother and the rest of the witch world had it wrong. Perhaps humans don’t fear us. Maybe we can co-exist.

Or maybe I’m being too trusting again.

#

Dawson pulls another set of data from his tablet and positions it on the massive wallscreen. “These,” he says, pointing at a list, “are the names of humans we caught attempting to break into the Agricultural Center in the Midlands.”

“Because they were hungry?” I ask.

“They were breaking the law.”

I glance at Henry. It’s been two weeks, and I still don’t have a handle on everything. Every decision I make seems wrong. But at least in this matter, I have Henry to guide me.

“Let them go,” I say.

Dawson raises his eyebrows. “I don’t think that’s wise, Miss Lark. You need to show you’re strong.”

“They’re starving, Dawson. The people need to eat. And if we don’t give them food, it only strengthens the Splinter group’s hold on them.” I’ve become more convinced of this during my conversations with Miss Tully. She’s explained how her rations dwindled until, most months, she subsisted on rice and beans. She told me how there’s an underground movement that distributes food to the hungry in exchange for attending their meetings. No one knows how they get it, but no one is asking. Food is food.

I have no doubt this is the Splinter Group, but when I told my advisors, none of them seemed to care.

The wallscreen lights up under his bare hand, transforming from the list of