Nightingale (The Sensitives) - By Dawn Rae Miller Page 0,2

The one I can now say easily.

I lean forward and rest my hands on the table.

“If I never see Beck Channing’s face again, it will be too soon.”

#

Kyra, Annalise, and two male guards surround me as we shove our way through the noisy crowd and toward a large wooden door. The leaner of the male guards, Oliver, pushes it open and Dawson steps through. He motions for me to follow.

The cool, white room feels oddly empty after the claustrophobia of the press conference. Unlike in there, where everything was hidden in shadow, this room is white-on-white-on-white. Like snow.

“You did great,” Kyra whispers. She drops onto a low couch and tucks her legs beneath her. “You sounded scared, and who can blame you? You’ve been through so much.”

The door swings open again, allowing the chatter of the room beyond to spill in, and I catch snips of the newscasters’ conversations. Mostly of the “Poor girl” and “Do you think she knew?” variety.

Mother, followed by her guards, glides in and joins Annalise and the men on other side of the room. I strain to hear the low hush of their voices, but the words are meaningless. Almost like code.

No one glances in my direction or even acknowledges my presence, and for a fleeting moment, I consider walking out the door, back into the hallway filled with reporters and cameras and questions, and running. I don’t, of course, because being out there is a million times more dangerous than staying here, waiting for whatever it is I’m waiting for.

Or maybe I’m too tired or confused to care.

Or perhaps I’m just dead inside.

As if any of that matters. Mother has made it clear there is nowhere I can run, nowhere I can hide, where she can’t find me. There may not be a physical barrier preventing me from escaping, like at Summer Hill, but she has magic, the eyes of the State, and the threat of the Light witches killing me. I’d be a fool to try to leave.

Out of habit, my fingers flutter to my neck, searching for my necklace, only to find an empty space. I cast my eyes to the floor and my shoulders heave. Somewhere between fleeing Summer Hill and arriving here, I lost it.

“Well done, Lark. Well done.” Mother beams. Her blond hair is pulled tightly away from her face into two low twists behind each ear. She looks like her normal, in-control self. Not the frightening woman who had me set on fire a few days earlier.

I squeeze my knees to my chest, forcing all the air from my lungs. I’ve learned Mother’s praise is generally followed by something horrible. With glazed eyes, I stare blankly at the snowy white carpet and focus on holding my breath.

“Now that that’s finished, I have to return to my office.” Mother brushes her hands together. “Annalise, see Lark home.”

“Of course, Malin.”

My lip trembles slightly when Mother turns toward me.

“Is something wrong, Lark?”

Tears roll down my cheeks.

“Lark?”

I lift my head slowly, until Mother’s eyes lock on mine.

And I scream.

2

For the past two hours, maybe longer, Mother and a team of healers have evaluated my mental state. Apparently, screaming after the press conference was not how I was supposed to behave, and no one seems to understand why I did it. I had shown all signs of making a healthy recovery.

Which means, instead of the relaxing afternoon Mother promised, healers are now firing question after question about the events at Summer Hill at me. Who worked with me? Who prepared my meals? How was I treated?

Unlike earlier sessions, my mind feels sharp and I answer their questions with ease.

“Dasha,” I say. “She’s the one who tried to teach me transportation.”

“Tried?” A female healer with long, pointy fingers sits across from me, typing notes on her tablet.

"I wasn't very good at it. I broke my nose. And then Eamon came and fixed it."

The woman’s head pops up. “Eamon? As in Eamon DeCanteur?”

“I don’t know his last name. He’s tall, good looking. A healer. Or at least that’s what everyone told me.” I pick at a piece of lint on my skirt. “He’s also vicious. Cruel. And evil.”

She writes a few more notes while I massage my aching wrist. The restraint is too tight.

“According to your testimony, your primary contacts at Summer Hill were Margo and Patrick Channing; your housemother, Bethina; Dasha Voigt; Eamon DeCanteur; and Beck Channing.”

My heart clenches and my mind spins through the chaotic mess of my memories, searching for Beck. I’ve