Welcome to Gaia! ::

In the quiet of the night, a man walked through the lab's courtyard garden. He seemed to glide rather than walk. He was dressed in the garb of a person from another universe. Finely-webbed winglike cloth rose from his back. His long coat flowed behind him in smooth waves, undulating with each step. The light of the moon cast a pale glow on his hair and skin, causing him to seem to glow whitely. He was tall and thin and graceful. His movements flowed smoothly together.

Despite the lab’s legendarily tight security, the man was neither seen nor heard. Only the unmoving stars witnessed his presence. Motes of dust seemed suspended in the air around him, a curtain of particles he brushed aside with ease.

He gazed across the courtyard with slow appraisal, unblinking, his eyes white orbs that saw without seeing. He looked at the glass doors leading to the lab’s reception area, to the windows that lined the rooms behind, to the curtains that shielded Dr. Akari’s office from prying eyes, but he could see straight through them to where the scientist worked, late, a cup of steaming tea halfway to her meticulously-painted red lips. He could see, too, the office of Iijima on the other side, staying until Dr. Akari went home. There were other scientists, too, and he knew all their names and faces. One was asleep at his desk already, but a coworker frozen motionless in the hallway was coming to rouse him. He could see, too, the security officers in their hidden nooks and crannies, gazing at blue monitors and standing sentinel on the roof around him, invisible to normal eyes. Their invisibility gave them a sense of freedom, but he was watching them.

The man strode past the little red and yellow flowers near the entrance, walking atop the petals weightlessly. He made his way across the grass to the rows of cabbages and paused. He could see someone had spent a great deal of time and love here, tilling the soil by hand, weeding out unwanted organisms, cleaning the leaves of natural debris. He knelt, touched the leaf of one of the cabbages, lifted it and checked under it, studying not the cabbage’s physical aspects but its connection to the universe. A great deal of data was flowing through here, and nonreality as well. The nonreality was being tapped like a field of oil, the cabbage drawing upon the Void in which the Lab hung suspended. Impressive, and all the more impressive to see it had happened in reality. In infinity, all things were simultaneously happening, but the chance of observing any such phenomena in reality was close to nothing. An event like this should not have happened in the lifetimes of a thousand trillion universe, and yet, in this one, it had. Its nonoccurrence in a thousand trillion universes previous was evidence.

He released the cabbage, brushed the leaf back into its original place, and rose, resuming his walk through the courtyard, past the weeping tree, finally disappearing from view through the back wall of the complex, and subsequently through the back wall of this reality.

It was not knowledge of readiness that drove me from my cabbage, but the knowledge that such a thing might never come. I realized I might spend my whole life in a gestational cabbage, continuing to receive a constant stream of data as the world beyond unfolded, unable to complete the download because it had no end to it. Given the vast quantities of data I had amassed about the world so far, that seemed unacceptable. It was not an eagerness that drove me from my cabbage, just an acceptance of the fact that it must eventually stop and it may as well be at that moment.

I had the full knowledge of all the written works on human physiology, and the scans of a million human bodies, and yet to me it was just data. I had no way knowing that the final piece of data the cabbage had sent to me, brain casing incomplete, was a warning. I simply ordered the cabbage to sever the connection and let me out. The embryonic juices oozed around me and receded into the cabbage's cellular pores as the canopy unfurled above me. In one fell swoop, I knew air and light and color and it made me dizzy with fresh sensory overload so I did not immediately stand. Instead, I fell back against my parent cabbage's leafy embrace, and then gloved hands were upon me. There were shouts, too.

My head swam, my brain struggling to assert itself in the influx of this new kind of data. Nanite data injection it could handle, but nerves and rods and cones and auditory sensation were so new it took some time for my brain to learn to process the input.

I am told reliably that most cabbage-born do not share these same problems, their construction having prepared them somewhat for their emergence, but it was obvious from the start I was not most children.

In my semi-conscious state I did not remember the words of the scientists around me. That data is lost to me forever. But I can well guess the drift of their panicked, shouty conversation, and they took me from the cabbage in a state of emergency. The cabbage, it seems had never fully completed the casing that was to be the top of my head, for it was more efficient to inject the data into an uncovered conduit.

It was a good thing that I had come out in the lab, or so they claimed, because they had the necessary technology and staff to deal with me and what they termed my condition. I remember the lights in the hallway passing over me, I remember trying to tell them about myself, I remember the expressions on their faces, but I was helpless and still learning to move and speak. I managed only a thin hiss they mistook for respiratory distress.

Looking back, I do not blame them. They dealt with me in the only way they knew how, based on their experience, but I was outside their experience.

This is how I came to be in residence at Ward Twelve.

It was Grey who escorted me, it having been her idea in the first place. Though she sat on the Laboratory's board of directors, she was not in fact a scientist or investor. She was simply a leader. It was evident in the way she spearheaded the debate, managed the other board members, weighed the options and chose the one that became the consensus. It was clear from the first moment that she was someone important, from her actions as well as her data.

"Now, Ylaine," she said as we headed to our mysterious destination, "I don't expect you to accept this from the onset. I only ask that you give it a fair chance. If you want to leave, I will arrange it, but if you give it a bit of time, I think you may find you enjoy it. Don't give up on the place too quickly."

I did not make any promises.

We arrived at a building larger than any I had before witnessed, though I had pictures in my head of buildings far larger. The difference between photograph and reality was disconcerting. Seeing something huge and actually standing in front of it were two completely different matters. The walls of the building were a shade of salmon and brown paint trimmed the windows. A bright red entryway awning stretched out in greeting, supported on golden poles, and the entrance was large enough to accommodate a good deal of traffic with both revolving and swinging door portions. It was, however, deserted. The glass of the entryway gave a clear view of the building's interior. I was careful not to let my gown catch in the revolving doorway.

The interior walls boasted diamond-patterned wallpaper and evenly-spaced lighting fixtures of frosted white glass and fluted gold. Large potted plants sat at equally regular intervals, Dieffenbachia, poisonous. The broad hallway opened into a wider sitting area and terminated at a deserted front desk. Though there were no people visible, I could hear adults' voices. Printed Venetian carpeting rubbed at my feet.

We went to the deserted front desk, far too high for me to see over, and Grey rang a bell. Some person invisible from my vantage point came out and greeted Grey familiarly. "I have another new resident for you," she told him.

"Great! When's he coming?" was the response.

"I am here," I informed the unseen man firmly, and was rewarded with a face leaning over the top of the counter. I saw the same look. He even had the indecency to let his jaw drop open.

"Come now, Tom," said Grey, but for all she was being politically correct now, when she had first seen me at the board meeting she had stared at my head covering for over ten minutes. Her reprimand had the effect of getting Tom to hand over a set of keys, which Grey gave to me.

"Room 1052, second floor on the left," he said, and I know as we walked away that he was leaning over his counter once more to observe my departure.

We did not go to the room immediately. Instead we stopped at a door marked "Manager" and Grey knocked upon it. Another adult answered, opened the door, then looked straight down at me and smiled. He wore black pants and suspenders over a lightly striped white shirt. "You must be Ylaine," he said, as if he had been expecting me, and I suppose he had. His hair was brown, his eyes a very striking shade of bright blue, and his glasses rimmed in antique silver. The office behind him was small, just a desk and a plant and a generic watercolor painting of a sailboat by the artist Von Hoefstenner, 1934-1980. A long grey woolen coat hung on the back of a chair. He made direct eye contact, none of the gaping I had until this moment been almost universally subjected to. "I'm Pavel, but you may call me Pasha." He had a slight accent, notable but diminished. He extended his hand down to me.

I had been exposed to the act of hand shaking at the board meeting and I tentatively put my hand in his. It was like a kitten to a tiger. He could have enfolded both my hands in one of his.

"I see you have your keys--" and I would later learn that Pavel Antipov possessed highly-honed skills of observation through his fifteen years as an intelligence operative-- "would you like to see your room or meet the others first?"

I knew what I should do, that I should go to my room and settle, but I was not interested in it. I wanted to prove from the onset that this was not the right place for me, that I would not be in the right place until I was far, far away from all the stares and gawking. "I will meet the others."

We went back down the hall, back towards the front desk and the voices. Off the sitting area sat a set of double glass doors with tall gold handles and frosted border insets. It was through there that the voices were coming. I felt for a moment trepidation, but I was committed to seeing this through.

The room was a bar. It contained tall chairs and tables, glasses dangling from the bar overhang, alcoholic beverages from various regions arranged behind the tall counter, their labels all familiar. There were a dozen and a half people total arranged in little groups and clusters, most around the pool table, where the crack of the balls was providing an irregular beat to the din of their boisterous conversations.

It took a moment for the adults to notice my arrival. Their voices fell like dominoes across the room as one by one they turned and saw me standing there in the doorway between Pasha and Grey. Some had to look twice to catch it. But they were all the same.

"Everyone, this is Ylaine. She's new to the building," Pasha said as if I were just any other arrival and not an object of immediate shock and disgust.

They were, I noted, all men. Ages ranging from twenties up to fifties. Most seemed in the thirty to forty range, like Pasha. They simply did not know what to make of me. Some were not even sure what it was they were seeing. I stared right back at them, but even this was not enough to discourage the looks I was getting. I could feel a pain welling up inside my chest, borne from my fury at this treatment. I had given them the chance to prove my expectations wrong, and they had done just the opposite.

Except for one man. He looked around at his fellows, saw the stares and gawking gazes, and put his drink down on the bar with a shaky hand. There was a nervous sweat on his forehead, but he strode over and crouched down so his eyes were almost level with mine and extended his hand in greeting as Pasha had. He was fighting himself, eyes flicking still to my uncovered brain, but he swallowed and said, "How do you do. I'm Sam."

"Very well, thank you," I said, and shook his hand. He smiled at me. I did not smile back, but at that moment I had the faintest glimmer of hope that perhaps this arrangement would not be wholly to my disliking.

There were, I learned a bit later, women in the building, but the vast majority of the residents were men.

Despite this apparently damning fact, I could not complain much as to the actual accommodations. The suite was modest but spacious, with all the basic things a person might need to live alone. It had three rooms plus a bathroom and a goodly-sized closet. Pasha briefly inventoried all the essential information as to the furnishings and rules and showed me how to operate the stove burners in the tiny kitchen. Someone had thoughtfully or intrusively provided a small stepping stool in my room. It was just enough to allow me to reach the things I might need -- provided these things were not in the upper kitchen cabinets, the shelving rack in the closet, on top of the dresser containing the television, or on the towel rack above the toilet in the bathroom. My data contained information on sticks vertically-challenged individuals might use to compensate for lack of height, and I decided to invest in one at the first chance.

Everything in the suite could be described as "standard." The items of furniture could have been anywhere or anyone's. In truth, the room was little more than a template, a canvas to be filled in with the accoutrements of my life, but I had no interest in filling it. I sat on the queen-size bed and wondered how long before I might be allowed to leave this place for another of my choosing where there might be even less people, and especially no men. Pasha and Sam had been tolerably decent, but the rest I was eager to sweep under the metaphorical rug. (My room had carpeting from wall to wall and only a small towel mat in the bathroom.) Though, thinking on it now, I was not much more enamored of the women I had met.

I did not understand why there were so many men here. My data indicated that the human species should be a roughly fifty-fifty split, with variances for differing regions and cultures. Since leaving the Lab, the only female I had encountered was Grey, and she was gone now. There was no data that could provide the answer to my question, and I was frustrated.

There came a knock at my door.

I did not yet know the proper procedure for visitors. I hopped from the bed, went to the door, and opened it, surprising Sam in the process. He seemed to hesitate a moment, expecting me to speak, but I was not inclined to at that moment.

"I came to see how you're settling in," he said finally. "And see if you need anything."

I thought a moment on my answer and said, "A reaching tool."

"Sorry?" said Sam, a word which I would find he used endlessly in his continuing efforts to maintain his role as a polite person.

"A reaching tool is a device used to grab or retrieve items located at a distance. It can be used to retrieve items from high, hard-to-reach places or items of an unsanitary nature. The most common form of such a tool involves a long, handled pole with rubber gripping appendages at the end capable of opening and closing by mechanical means. They are frequently manufactured from plastic, aluminum, or a combination of components. An older variation is a hooked pole, used by shopkeepers for centuries to retrieve items hanging out of reach. Shall I continue?"

Sam stared at me as I spoke, but it was not the stare of someone disturbed by my head. It was a new kind of stare, one I would receive in almost equal measure to the shocked gaping my initial appearance inspired: the stare of someone observing an intellectual phenomenon they found out of place. "I think I've got the general sense of it," Sam managed. "I'm sure we could find one. You can find most anything around the hotel."

"Is this a hotel, then?" I asked, combative.

Sam reached around and scratched the back of his neck. "Yes, I think. Suppose it ought to have had some sort of name, the Majestic or the Plaza, one of those old signs... As far as I know we're the only ones who've ever lived in it, but..." Sam stared off down the corridor a moment, smiled and shrugged. "It's a big place. There's no telling what history might be found."

I let that sit there in the air for a long time. Obviously, history either was or wasn't, and I had blueprints that seemed to be accurate to this hotel. Sam's chatter was, in my estimation, pure babble.

"So how are you settling in?" he asked again.

"As I have no intention of staying, that is irrelevant."

Sam was not easily discouraged. "Oh, that's too bad. It's really not such a terrible place when you get to know it better. A bit noble, even. Doors are always open to those who need it... I admire that. Granted, mind you, there's not exactly a standard for the people that live here, but I think overall we manage well enough. In a sort of-- good way." He smiled.

I was still unimpressed and said nothing.

"If you like, we can grab something to eat? Or find something to watch on the telly?"

I had not eaten in a considerable length of time, and I no longer had the intravenous line to supply me nutrients. "Eating would be acceptable," I said, my first concession to Sam's attempts at some sort of friendship.

He brightened instantly. "Good, then! Should you like to get changed?"

"Changed?"

"Into some clothing. It's not a problem, of course, I just thought -- if you wanted to."

I did not understand immediately. I was wearing the hospital gown they had dressed me in at the Lab, and it had not occurred to me this was anything less than appropriate. "I do not have any alternate attire."

"Oh," said Sam. He pointed into my suite. "Sorry, may I?"

I stepped aside, let him enter. He took a quick moment to orient himself; there were only so many room layouts in the hotel. He went to the dresser, saying as he did, "Things here have a way of... making themselves available when necessary. Only the most strictly basic things, food and clothing, but... ah! See?" He opened the top drawer of the dresser and held up a folded article of clothing.

"The closet was empty," I said.

"Did you expect it to be?"

"Yes."

Sam smiled. "It's the expectation that sets things, initially. Here, let's move these things to the lower drawer..." Sam began to move the clothes to where I might reach them more easily later. "Once you've observed something, it's set, but prior to observation, the uncertainty principle applies."

"Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle," I supplied, though strictly speaking it did not apply to this situation.

"More or less," agreed Sam, brightly. "Once you've observed something, you've locked it into place, so if you're careful, you can still get what you need out of anywhere you haven't looked. If you expect to, that is."

"That is ridiculous," I informed Sam.

"Some things are," he said, in retrospect quite wisely. "Here." He handed me some clothing. It seemed real enough, and the correct size. I was not yet ready to accept the idea that the clothing had magically appeared based on Sam's wanting it to. I was more inclined to believe he or someone else had put it there in advance. I started to change.

Sam did a peculiar thing. He coughed, averted his eyes, and turned away, heading for the other room. I thought nothing of it at the time and worked out how to put on the shirt, but the button on the corduroy shorts was too much. I sought out Sam for help.

He was flustered. "Oh, ah--" He quickly stood, returned to the dresser, and closed his eyes a moment. It was a silent prayer. With eyes still closed, he opened the drawer and reached as far back as he could. "Oh thank God!" He offered the new piece of clothing to me and I gingerly took it, not certain of its purpose from the shape. Sam explained it. "This is, uh, sorry, underwear, it goes under the pants. Uhm, you put your legs through here..."

I sighed. I could not be expected to know these things immediately. I removed the corduroy shorts and managed with the underwear, Sam continuing his apology: "I'm so sorry, I completely forgot about undergarments. Here, let me help." I had managed to get the underwear on the wrong way round.

Somehow, between Sam's clumsy, embarrassed assistance and my determination to see things done properly, we got it right, and Sam managed to button the shorts, too. "I think in the future I would prefer a dress," I informed him.

"Sorry," he said, and we went to the kitchens.

I did not know the function of the alarm clock, not practically, so when I awoke it was late and to the sound of Sam's knocking. "Ylaine?"

I had slept in the clothes I was wearing, not knowing any better, but as I did not have any hair the only hint as to my unkempt nature were some wrinkles in my clothing. Sam looked much fresher in his clean suit, so recently shaved and showered I could still see the dampness in his short hair.

"Good morning! I was wondering if you wanted to get a bit of breakfast?"

The first thing I ever learned about myself was that I was not a morning person. I went with Sam like the living dead, dragging my feet on the carpet, and did not even notice the stares in the dining room, the new faces, or the sound of Harry calling out a morning greeting to Sam, though we did eventually wind up at Harry's table, our plates laden with Sam's recommendation of waffles from the buffet.

Harry was not an easy man to like from my perspective. "Good morning, princess," he said to me, his tone clearly demeaning. I only grunted. Harry turned his attention to Sam as he buttered a piece of toast. "Sleep well, Sammy boy?"

"Well enough. And yourself?"

"Ehh," said Harry, shrugging, watching me. He pushed my chair with his foot, trying to get a reaction I was not willing to give him. "Anyone awake in there?"

"Come now, Harry," sighed Sam in disapproval.

Harry poured a third a cup of coffee and slid it across the table to me. "Try some of this. It'll pick you right up."

"You can't give that to a child," said Sam, reaching over to try and take the cup from me, but at that statement I decided the coffee was to be mine and put my knees up against the table, cradling the hot drink against my chest. It smelled rich and thick and full. Sam looked helpless and defeated. Harry only smirked.

"That's a good princess," said Harry. "Don't let anyone tell you what to do."

"Mind your tongue, it's hot," warned Sam. I took a sip.

I will not say I enjoyed it, but neither did I dislike it. It did strange things to my head. I felt more alert within a few minutes. I peered at the dark liquid, not caring that I had burnt my tongue on it. "What is this?"

"That? That's coffee," said Harry. Instantly my reaction made sense. Caffeine was a stimulant, coffee a common breakfast beverage for this reason. Harry continued, "Not any of that sodding tripe Sam here makes, either, this is the good stuff."

"I say!" exclaimed Sam.

"Sorry, mate, your molten toff is sight unseemly terrible." Harry leered rudely.

"Don't go getting all Cockney on me for it," huffed Sam, but in truth he could not disprove Harry's claim. He had a reputation for making the worst pot of coffee known to man.

"Ahh, I tease because I love," Harry sniggered.

"And that's what worries me," sighed Sam. "Haven't you ever considered trying to be nice to the people you purport to enjoy the company of?"

"Only the women, Sam! Only the women." Harry laughed and leaned back in his seat, locking his hands behind his head. When he did so, the jacket of his suit slid back to reveal a holstered gun.

"Smith and Wesson Model Twenty-nine forty-four caliber Magnum," I said automatically. "Popularized in the movie 'Dirty Harry' by the actor Clint Eastwood."

Harry was so shocked he just stared at me with some mixture of emotion that made me uncomfortable, and Sam gave me one of those gaping stares of amazement as he had the night before. Harry shook his head as if to clear it. "And how'd a little princess like you learn that?" he asked. He looked askance at Sam. "Did you put her up to this?" Sam only held up his hands and shook his head.

I turned up my nose at Harry and cut into my waffles, using what little knowledge of utensils I had so far gleaned from Sam. Harry gave me a dirty look.

"If you're gonna prank me, Sam, at least have the balls to admit it," Harry growled, taking his plate and storming off.

"But I didn't--" Harry was gone. Sam sighed and looked at me. I half expected him to say something about the gun, about my having driven Harry away, but he only asked, "Have any plans for the day yet?"

"No," I said simply.

"It's a big place, you might try walking around," Sam suggested. "Get a chance to orient yourself. There's a pool somewhere, but I can never find it. You might try."

That sounded fairly pointless to me. "I think I shall sit in my room."

Sam was crestfallen at that idea. "I could ask one of the other residents to show you around, give you a tour--"

"No thank you," I said, strong emphasis on the negative. "I would like to go back to my room now."

He didn't like it, I could tell, but in the end, even without my data, I was right. Sam did exactly as I wanted and took me back to me room.

And then the knock came on my door. I was experimenting with arrangements of objects in my room out of sheer lack of direction, lining up every liftable object I could find against the back wall. I answered the door, expecting to find Sam (though it was much too early for him to be home from work) or Miguel or Pasha or any number of other people who lived in the building, but instead I found Grey and a man unfamiliar.

"Good morning, Ylaine," said Grey. (It was already eleven forty-five.) "I wanted to see how you're settling."

"May we come in?" asked the man, his accent predictably British, but a different variant than the accents I had thus far encountered. Based on the data I had pertaining to dialects of English, I could discern a hint of Scottish roots. The man's hair was certainly red enough, and his dress style something out of the Scottish countryside, but twisted to add a mix of English gentry. His drab olive scarf bore the insignia of the Queen's Magus. The Latin on the emblem translated as "All Worlds United in Magic." This was a slightly different version of the British monarchy than was familiar to Sam, or Harry.

I did not move to let Grey and the stranger in, instead asking, "What do you want?" in a tone intentionally not welcoming.

"To look in on you," said Grey, unperturbed, as if she had expected my response.

"And come inside, if we may," said the man.

"I don't know you," I informed him.

"Reginald Thrash," he introduced himself, offering me his hand. I ignored it. He withdrew the offer.

Grey arched an eyebrow and took a noisy breath, peering down at me in careful judgment. I held her gaze unblinking. Grey held her ground.

With the thought that it would be a better use of my time to get this over with, I finally let them in. Either could have forced the point had they wanted. They were both adults, bigger and stronger than myself by far.

Reginald looked around my rooms, apparently liking what he saw. "This seems quite reasonable!" he remarked. "Who else fancies a cup of tea?"

"Thank you," said Grey, and sat down at my kitchen table. A moment later she leaned back and flipped the lights on, illuminating the area. I had not bothered to turn the lights on in my suite, as the sunlight filtering in through the white undercurtain on the window sufficed for my purposes.

I was quite peeved that Reginald had apparently invited himself to use my kitchen, poking around my cabinets for a kettle and some teacups. "Ylaine? Tea?" he asked.

"No," I said, but he took down three cups anyway, in case I changed my mind.

I did not have any tea bags in my kitchen, but somehow, Reginald put the kettle down on my table piping hot and brewed without so much as turning on the stovetop. I hid my immediately terrified confusion and stared from the door.

"Come, sit down," said Reginald, pulling out the chair for me.

"No," I said again.

"As you wish," shrugged Reginald, and took his seat.

Then Grey began her interrogation. "Are you enjoying your accomodations?" she asked, fingering her teacup. Steam wafted before her face.

I answered only with the barest of responses, keeping the details to myself. "They are sufficient." Grey hummed and nodded slightly.

"Have you met many of the residents?" Grey asked the questions, but Reginald watched like a hawk my responses. I had the impression Grey's questions were for them both.

"I have."

"How do you like them so far?"

"I don't."

"Have you given any thought on where you might want to go to?"

In fact, I had not, but I offered in response to the question: "Anywhere would be fine." Grey looked at Reginald, who was frowning.

Then Reginald asked a question. "And what of your education? Have you given any thought to that?"

I stared at Reginald, frown knitted on my forehead. He continued to stare at me expectantly, but I had no answer.

He finally continued, "Grey tells me you've quite a lot of knowledge at your disposal."

"I do."

"Then would you be averse to undergoing tests to determine where we should place you?"

I did not answer immediately, for the rush of anger that welled in me was almost too much. "I am not a research project," I replied to him, voice raised.

"These wouldn't be medical tests," clarified Grey, immediately discerning the source of my discomfort.

"We'd just like to find out where you might best fit academically," said Reginald. "And I'd like to cast a few charms on you, if I may."

That sounded dangerous. "Charms?"

"To determine if you've any capacity for magic," said Reginald.

I considered the request. I did not wholly trust Reginald, or Grey, much less Reginald's magic. But I had a bottom line to maintain. "I don't care," I said. Reginald looked at Grey, who waved her hand in a go-ahead signal and slurped her tea.

Reginald left his teacup on the table and crouched down so he was level with me, peering intently through his spectacles. He was trying to watch my face, but he kept flickering to my head casing. He waved his hand past my face and frowned. His fingers gave a little jerk, like an involuntary convulsion, and then he stood and turned to Grey. "No, it isn't anything magical," he concluded. "I'd doubt it if she has any magical ability whatsoever."

"My name is Ylaine," I seethed at Reginald, concluding that whatever else he was, he was a pompous a**.

Reginald glared down at me. "Then Ylaine doesn't have any magical ability or nature." He looked back at Grey, rolling his eyes as he did. "I would doubt very much if it were magical in origin. She has absolutely no residual traces of any magic in her aura or elsewhere."

"I am standing right here," I continued, glaring.

"There isn't even anything that would suggest she could be psychic," said Reginald, retaking his seat. "If you like, I can have Iuri take a look into it."

Grey waved her hand. "No, quite alright, Reg. I trust your assessment. It just leaves the question of education."

"For today," shrugged Reg, taking a long draught from his cup.

I finally decided to speak on the subject. "I do not require education. I was born with knowledge of everything."

Reginald's eyebrows quirked up, his face lighting with amusement at some private joke. "Everything?" he repeated. Grey chuckled behind her teacup.

"You may test this if you require."

Again he looked to Grey for permission, and again she gave it. He twisted in his seat, resting his arm on the chair back. "Alright, then. Tell me, who was king of England in 1603?"

That was an interesting question. "James I," I answered after a moment of trying to determine if that was in fact a trick.

Reginald leaned a little further over the back of his seat. "What is the atomic number of rhenium?"

"Seventy-five."

"Who contributed more to the realm of mathematics, Pythagoras or Hippocrates of Chios?"

"That's subjective."

"Well, if I'd said Archimedes, it would have been too easy." He smiled at his own perceived humor. "Tell me which of them you think made the greater contribution."

I could not manage an answer. Reginald was leaning halfway out of his chair at this point. "You're familiar with them?"

"Yes. They are both Greek mathematicians, Pythagoras during the late 6th century BC, Hippocrates of Chios during the mid-5th century."

That surprised him, as my vast knowledge usually did, but he recovered quickly. "I'd like to hear your opinion."

"I have none."

"Do you need more time to think on it?"

I frowned, wondering what part of "none" Reginald did not understand. "I fail to see what difference an amount of time would make."

"Fascinating," said Reginald, and settled back in his chair, returning momentarily to his tea. To Grey, he said, "Pure data without analysis."

"Tremendous, isn't it?" smirked Grey behind her teacup.

"So glad I was able to amuse you," I seethed at them both.

"Ylaine, come here," said Reginald, unperturbed. He patted the seat next to him.

"I prefer it where I am," I said, though in truth I was getting tired of standing so long in the same place for no good reason.

Reginald was not amused in the slightest, voice deepening with authority. "If we're going to have this discussion, we're going to have it at the table. Now sit down."

"Is that a threat?" I countered, not caring if he angered.

"Is she always this contrary?" he asked Grey.

"Probably," Grey shrugged.

"Do not speak as if I am not present," I demanded.

Reginald put his teacup down and stretched his arms out above him, breath rattling in his lungs. "The way I see it, and mind you, this is just an opinion, someone wishing to participate in a conversation would do well to join the people having it at the table." He exhaled noisily as he brought his arms down, satisfied with himself.

"We might even be able to discuss a change in living accommodations," suggested Grey.

"That we might indeed," said Reginald. "But only at the table."

"Only at the table," echoed Grey. She arced an eyebrow at me, smiling wryly. I glowered. They thought they had me beat, and for the moment, they were right. I wanted to go someplace else, somewhere far away without any people. If that meant I had to sit down at the table, I would do it, but this was not an idea I would let them hold over my head forever like a candy promised but never given to a child in exchange for its good behavior.

"Isn't that better?" Reginald poured himself some more tea. "Now, Ylaine, there is more to education than the rote memorization of facts. The ability to collect and analyze data to draw forth an opinion or conclusion is a crucial one. You may have collected the data, but unless you have the ability to reason with it, it has no point."

"That is your opinion," I informed him. "My data is sufficient."

Grey dropped into the conversation, leaning forward. "But, Ylaine, don't you want more from your life?"

I shrank back slightly. These attacks against me were unfair. "You need to attend school, there's no question about it," said Reginald. "I think the Liberty Center would be appropriate. I'll speak to Percy about where we should place her. I imagine when he hears my request, he'll have kittens."

Grey laughed. "I'd like photographic proof of that, if you wouldn't mind."

"On my word as a Thrash."

I thought quickly. Reginald might have thought me incapable of analytical reasoning, but I was certainly more than able to apply logic as a means to an end. "Am I to understand that you have already selected a specific institution at which you believe I will attend?"

Reginald leaned back in his chair, holding his teacup in midair. "I wouldn't say that precisely, no." He sipped his tea, forcing me to wait for him to continue. "All the Patch children are going there. I dare say, when she's old enough, so will my Victoria. They've a rather good magical program."

"What Patch children?"

"The ones from the cabbages. Like you," Reginald said.

"You're making one rather large, fallacious assumption," I said to him.

"Oh?" asked Reginald, twinkle in his eyes, mirth tugging at the corner of his mouth. He did not believe he was capable of erroneous assumptions, not on the level of which I was accusing him.

"I have been promised that I may freely choose where I should like to live, and I assure you, I will make my residence somewhere very far from this Liberty Center of yours." Right then, I wished I had asked for a cup of tea, that I might sip it like an arrogant little t**t in perfect imitation of the much larger arrogant t**t at the table. "I was furthermore promised that we might discuss the manner of my leaving here should I sit down at this table."

There was a moment. Reginald put down his tea and guffawed, doubling over the table in laughter. Grey rolled her eyes and kept to her teacup.

"That's not funny!" I insisted.

"Oh dear me," said Reginald, wiping a tear from his eye. He took a sharp, nasal breath, sat up, tugged at his jacket, crossed his legs, and folded his hands in his lap. "Very well, then. Let's discuss."

I could have spit at him for his behavior, but Grey was as good as her word. "I did say you'd be allowed to choose a place of your own desiring, but I think it's only fair to request that you visit first and evaluate the locations' suitability," she said, rubbing the teacup in her hands as she spoke.

"Otherwise you're likely to end up living under an airport," quipped Reginald, as if he were imparting some great wisdom to me. Git.

"Access to amenities is something you need to consider, layout of the building you wish to live in, whether you'd be more comfortable in a house or apartment or a large city or the countryside..."

"When you find something you truly love, you'll know it," nodded Reginald.

"Local culture, employment and educational opportunities, area restaurants and shopping centers, weather patterns and potential natural disasters."

"I should like to live somewhere where there aren't other people," I informed them.

"That may sound good," said Reginald, "but in practice it's much more difficult."

"It would be preferable to live somewhere with good neighbors for now, in case of emergency," agreed Grey. "I know you feel like you can do anything, Ylaine, but try to remember: you're still a child by the terms of society, and there will be things that you simply cannot do by yourself. If something goes wrong, as things often do, it would be a good idea to have someone else around to help you. When you're somewhat more older and proven, you can move into the middle of nowhere if you so choose."

"Fine," I said through my teeth, "I'll consider first locations with other people. But let me see them now that I may more expeditiously find a suitable one for my purposes."

"It's not going to be an instantaneous process," Grey said in warning. "It takes time."

"But we could certainly start tomorrow," said Reginald.

I looked at him and at Grey. Were they seriously implying that this would be a joint venture?

"I'll assign you Jalloun and Brahim," said Grey. "Shall I take this to mean you're enlisting for the job?"

Reginald only grinned, crossing his arms and looking down at me. "Whaddaya say, Ylaine? Up for a little house-hunting?"

As if I was being given any choice in the matter.

"Would you like to go for a picnic?" asked Sam in the morning. I only stared at him, not certain of the request.

"Don't you need to go to work?"

"It's Saturday!" he exclaimed good-naturedly.

"Reginald says Saturday is a good day to go look at houses." I had not been aware that Saturday was not a day for working.

"It is," said Sam, looking disappointed. He quickly cheered for my sake. "How is that coming? Seen any houses you like?"

"No," I admittedly flatly. "As yet I have not found a satisfactory domicile."

"That's too bad. It can take a lot of looking. I could go with?"

That seemed odd to me. I was also not aware that house hunting was considered in some circles a social excursion. "Are you intending to buy a residence?"

Sam shrugged. "Well, no, I quite like it here, but I'd be happy to offer a second set of eyes. I do know some things about construction."

"Third set," I corrected, as Reginald and I already constituted two sets of eyes. "I am already well-versed in the subject of home building."

For the first time, Sam criticized me. "I don't doubt you know it all, Ylaine, but knowing how a house is built and knowing what signs to look for in a house when buying are two completely different things. There are certain signs that might indicate the structure is less than stable or poorly aging, and it's as much knowing the signs as knowing where to look and how to find them, and I'm sorry, but those are things you gain only from practical experience."

"And you possess these things?" I challenged him.

"My father was a foreman," said Sam, surprised that I did not seem to know. More accurate would be to say I had not grasped the connection between a father's occupation and son's knowledge base. "I would've been, too, but..."

It was not a secret things had a tendency to go somewhat disastrously wrong around Sam London. Things breaking and falling, electrical outages and faults, luck going the other way -- if Sam was within sight of one of Emerson's gambling tables, there would always be an immediate outcry for him to move out of sight, or sit down and risk his own assets and money. Sam never gambled. I had thus far been spared some of more dramatic disasters. A few things had fallen in Sam's company, breakfast was burnt one morning, but all in all I had not incurred any significant damage to myself or my belongings. In a way, it was amusing, a sort of game to keep my eyes open and guess what next would go amiss.

Generally, it was Sam that bore the brunt of it, whatever it turned out to be, but on a construction site, lives would have been in danger, assuming one believed in such superstitions as luck. Granted, I had yet the encounter a Sam disaster that he himself had caused either directly or indirectly, but I was still not convinced the aberrations were a result of some mythical force surrounding Sam's person.

"It is an awfully lovely day out," said Sam, clearly hoping to somehow spend some part of it in my company. "Why not look at houses and go on a picnic?"

My ideal day was one spent in peace and quiet and without any other people, but I had sworn that I would leave this place and I had no intention of backing down from that. That meant I had to go house shopping with Reginald to prove to all concerned how serious I was about moving. The problem was, serious as I was, after just two short days I already hated every minute of the endeavor. Boring houses, annoying homeowners, even more annoying realtors, a complete dog and pony show of obscure social behaviors expected from both buyers and sellers that culminated in a great deal of nothing. Two days, and everything had serious flaws. I was beginning to suspect Reginald and Grey of conspiracy.

My continual misery and discomfort was not something I was keen on sharing with another individual. Bad enough Reginald was already aware of it. I had a commitment to maintaining the wall around myself and preventing others from seeing my weaknesses and perceiving me as anything less than capable. Every little slip-up was a threat to that facade, a justification for them to keep me here as a veritable prisoner of various laws and legal documents over which, as a "minor," I had no control. I was well aware no court would ever emancipate me, no matter how much I knew or how smart I seemed, when for all intents and purposes these people were doing their best to help me and were doing no harm. My only hope was to convince them through relentless consistency that my way was the right one.

Unless this whole house shopping endeavor was indeed a charade, in which case I could trust Sam's good nature to alert me to the fact. "Very well," I said. "You may accompany us on our hunt for housing."

"And have a picnic?" he exclaimed.

I rolled my eyes. "I suppose."

~ ~ ~

There are few things that cannot be made better with the company of good friends, and in truth I found house hunting with Sam far more tolerable than with only Reginald. Sam was as good as his word, inspecting every house without quite seeming to, pointing out things to the realtors and sellers that left them gap-jawed. There was an incident with a set of shelves mysteriously disconnecting from a wall, but if Sam felt responsible for it with his superstitions, he kept it to himself. He was, however, far less discerning.

"Oh, this place is spot-on lovely," he said of one of the cottages. Reginald just rolled his eyes, already expecting what I would say.

"I dislike the grounds," I announced.

Sam blinked. "What?" The garden was, from his perspective, absolutely picturesque, the clear result of hours of hard work by one or more of the homeowners.

"These would require too much maintenance," I said of the plants.

Reginald chortled, "Perhaps you could pour concrete over it." He gestured all-encompassingly with his hand.

"No!" cried Sam, horrified, and was immediately flushed with embarrassment at his outburst. "... Let's go look at another, shall we?"

We stopped, as promised, for a picnic midday. Seated on the checkered blanket with the basket of food between us we looked like nothing so much as a gay British couple and their adopted daughter, something at which I am sure Reginald would have laughed and Sam gotten embarrassed had I mentioned it.

"You know, if you're not interested in gardens, perhaps something in a row or apartment building?"

I opened my mouth, but Reginald cut me off: "Too many people!" he said before I had the chance too, then laughed at his ability to predict my objection. Sam looked rather put-off at Reginald's behavior, and I felt vindicated to have someone else on my side for a change.

"You could hire a gardener," Sam countered.

I shrugged. "I do not like flowers."

The afternoon went much the same, but by now my legs were getting tired and I was "inspecting couches" of the houses we were buying.

"I don't think the couches are included," said Sam in a moment of what I can only describe as pure daftness.

"I think she means to sit down," chuckled Reginald, and I stood up immediately, rankled and concluding bringing Sam along had not been a good idea after all. When we headed for the next house, Reginald made a point of striding broadly, and I could not double my steps to keep up. Sam clipped his own pace to match me.

"Are your legs tired? I could carry you."

My teeth clenched. I did not need his help and told him so.

"I wasn't implying you did," said Sam readily. "But I'm offering it if you'd like, just as an option."

I walked a few more paces and stopped. My legs were burning. "So long as we are clear this isn't a necessity," I said.

Sam smiled, happy to be able to help someone so self-sufficient. "As day."

It was unusually satisfying to be able to view things from the perspective of an adult's height as I rode on Sam's back. He jogged to catch up to Reginald. Reginald only raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure that's wise, given your luck situation?"

Sam might have put me down, but I was perfectly capable of taking on Reginald. "Don't be ridiculous," I said, tightening my arms around Sam's neck, "that's nothing but ignorant superstition. I am certain there will be no incidents that place me in any danger."

"I'm not sure, Ylaine," mumbled Sam, and my arms tightened even further.

"Shut up, Sam." And he did.

"I suppose you think magic is all hand tricks and superstition," jabbed Reginald, and that non-argument lasted us the rest of the day.

In the end, I was proven right. Nothing happened while I was on Sam's shoulders. After I dismounted, the chair Reginald sat down in broke and sent him tumbling, but that was pure coincidence, and no less than he deserved for trying to upset Sam.

I ran into Harry again, but this time without benefit of Sam's company, as Sam worked until the evening on weekdays and generally turned up an hour or so before dinner if his workload was reasonable. I had accumulated in these few short weeks an alarming degree of knowledge about Sam's work schedule and responsibilities, information which had not been in my data because, frankly, it was pointless and irrelevant, much like Sam.

"Hey, there, Lainey," was Harry's greeting, as he almost ran into me in the hall.

I was quick to correct him, "My name is Ylaine," but I might have been speaking to a brick wall for all Harry acknowledged this information.

"How's life treatin' you, eh? Getting along nice with all yer neighbors?"

Harry had a very annoying accent, British in some sense but not at all like Reginald's or Sam's. "Whether I am or not makes no difference," I informed him.

"Oh?" he said, following me as I attempted to brush past him. Apparently, though he had been about to walk into me as he came around the corner, he was now heading in the same direction.

"I will be leaving soon," I informed him.

Harry was surprisingly happy at the information. "Oh, yes! Yer moving! You've found a place then?"

"... No," I admitted.

"Do me a favor, then," said Harry, as if I'd do him any favors. "Make your final decision next Tuesday."

That seemed suspiciously specific. "Why."

Harry grinned. "I stand to make a good deal of money. I've picked that day in the pool."

Failing to see what my home selection had to do with swimming, I naively ventured, "What?"

"Emerson's running odds on how long it'll take you," said Harry, as if this were something he expected me to know. "Most successful bit of game he's run in near f'rever, and the longer you take, the bigger the prize money. Actually, scratch that, you and me should go into business--" Harry realized I had stopped walking several paces ago.

I was furious, even incensed. That lout, that wretch Emerson was betting on me, as if I were his plaything. He had done the same thing the night of my arrival.

"Though," said Harry, looking back at me, "if you ask me--"

"I didn't," I said flatly, again ignored.

"--If'n ye haven't found a single place that's even close to yer specifications, may as well stay here with us."

I instantly demanded, without giving much consideration to his suggestion: "And how much do you win for that?"

Harry shrugged. "I s'pect, as it isn't in the terms of the betting, Emerson'd stand to keep all the money." Then he grinned, like he knew he had just presented me with a dilemma that tore my original intentions asunder. Pick a house and reward Emerson's gamblers. Stay here and reward Emerson. Either way, I was being taken advantage of.

"And if I don't pick?" I demanded, mostly out of curiosity.

"That bloke Reginald stands to make a lot a lot of money." Harry continued grinning.

He was, in his own way, he later confessed to me, trying to get back at me for the trick he thought I'd played on him with Sam at breakfast. Of course, he could not have known how much his attempt at revenge would affect me. Even I did not know that.