Bedlam Boyz(14)

"Okay." Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.

She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.



Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.

Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.

After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.

And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.

She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.

Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.

She hoped Kayla would use her teachings "in the right way." That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.

I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.



Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .

"I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?"

"Uhn," Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. "I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy." This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?

"I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like."

"Thank you." Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice-smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built-up grime.

Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well-rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.

A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. "Breakfast?" the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.

They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: "How do you do . . . that speaking thing?" she asked, tapping her forehead.

Elizabet laughed. "I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too."

"Sure beats using the telephone," Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. "Once you get used to it," she added.