cal her dead father and grandmother back from limbo, a practice Natalie had permitted but did not encourage except in cases of emergency. Since Dan had gone to the Place Beyond four years ago, Grandma Nora had been the
only soul Cal ie al owed inside her head. After
forbidding her daughter to summon strangers, how
could Natalie explain why she did so herself?
"Sometimes, honey, people who lived in the past have knowledge or skil s that we want to...bring back," she said. "I make money to pay for our house and food by letting those Whos into my mind so I can talk with them and work with them."
Cal ie's voice became very smal . "Couldn't you make money some other way?"
Natalie grimaced. When she quit the Corps, the
government had blackbal ed her in retaliation, making it nearly impossible for her to get regular employment.
"Maybe, honey, but it's very hard to make enough money, and people pay more when you have a special skil --"
"But you like it. That's why you do it, isn't it?" Though her mouth opened to answer "No," Natalie found she couldn't muster the denial. Like being a freak? Like having dead souls invade her head like poor relations moving in? Don't be ridiculous. It was
horrendous to relive the final agonies of the deceased. Any sensible person could see that a Violet's life was tragic, nightmarish, pitiable...or so Natalie had believed since childhood.
Yet, only a few minutes ago, hadn't she watched,
enthusiastic and enthral ed, while Edvard Munch used her as an instrument to create a new masterpiece more than fifty years after his death? Even when the Corps condemned her to the bleak, gut-wrenching toil of homicide investigations--the daily devastation of sharing murder victims' anguish--hadn't the work
gratified her need for purpose? Didn't she get a
surreptitious thril when she solved a case only she could solve? When she caught a kil er only she could catch?
Did she like summoning the dead? Perhaps not. But it was the thing that made her unique, that shaped her life and gave it meaning. To say that she hated being a Violet was tantamount to saying she hated herself.
"What made you say that?" she inquired rather than answering Cal ie's question. "Why did you ask if I like it?"
The child's violet gaze shone with something that disturbed Natalie more than accusation: excitement. "
'Cause sometimes I miss it," she admitted softly.
"What do you mean?"
Cal ie took a sudden interest in the carpet, the wal s, the stairs. "I don't know. I feel so...empty sometimes. In here." She put her hands on her smal chest. "I keep out the bad Whos, but no one else comes in, except
Grandma Nora sometimes. It's not like when Daddy
used to come."
Natalie nodded, unable to speak. Even ten years later, the memory of Dan could stil tighten her throat. Cal ie never knew Dan Atwater while he was alive. An F.B.I. profiler, he died in the line of duty while saving Natalie from the Violet Kil er. Yet Cal ie had enjoyed a closer relationship with her father than any ordinary child could ever hope to know in this life. Al through her babyhood, she could fil herself with his love and comfort whenever she wished. Natalie, too, had been able to draw Dan into her mind and body, achieving the total unity of being that most lovers could only dream of.
Then Dan went to the Place Beyond, a region from
which even conduits could not summon the dead. Left alone with her grief, Natalie began to comprehend what life was like for normal people, al locked into their separate flesh, never knowing the incomparable joy of merging completely with a kindred spirit. It was
appropriate that the body consisted of cel s, Natalie mused, for it imprisoned the soul in solitary
confinement.
"It's just me," Cal ie said, echoing her thoughts. "Al the time. That's why I wanted to know if you liked having the Whos inside you. If they made you feel the way Dad did."
Natalie hugged her. "No, baby girl. Not like your dad."
"But you like it, right? If
only soul Cal ie al owed inside her head. After
forbidding her daughter to summon strangers, how
could Natalie explain why she did so herself?
"Sometimes, honey, people who lived in the past have knowledge or skil s that we want to...bring back," she said. "I make money to pay for our house and food by letting those Whos into my mind so I can talk with them and work with them."
Cal ie's voice became very smal . "Couldn't you make money some other way?"
Natalie grimaced. When she quit the Corps, the
government had blackbal ed her in retaliation, making it nearly impossible for her to get regular employment.
"Maybe, honey, but it's very hard to make enough money, and people pay more when you have a special skil --"
"But you like it. That's why you do it, isn't it?" Though her mouth opened to answer "No," Natalie found she couldn't muster the denial. Like being a freak? Like having dead souls invade her head like poor relations moving in? Don't be ridiculous. It was
horrendous to relive the final agonies of the deceased. Any sensible person could see that a Violet's life was tragic, nightmarish, pitiable...or so Natalie had believed since childhood.
Yet, only a few minutes ago, hadn't she watched,
enthusiastic and enthral ed, while Edvard Munch used her as an instrument to create a new masterpiece more than fifty years after his death? Even when the Corps condemned her to the bleak, gut-wrenching toil of homicide investigations--the daily devastation of sharing murder victims' anguish--hadn't the work
gratified her need for purpose? Didn't she get a
surreptitious thril when she solved a case only she could solve? When she caught a kil er only she could catch?
Did she like summoning the dead? Perhaps not. But it was the thing that made her unique, that shaped her life and gave it meaning. To say that she hated being a Violet was tantamount to saying she hated herself.
"What made you say that?" she inquired rather than answering Cal ie's question. "Why did you ask if I like it?"
The child's violet gaze shone with something that disturbed Natalie more than accusation: excitement. "
'Cause sometimes I miss it," she admitted softly.
"What do you mean?"
Cal ie took a sudden interest in the carpet, the wal s, the stairs. "I don't know. I feel so...empty sometimes. In here." She put her hands on her smal chest. "I keep out the bad Whos, but no one else comes in, except
Grandma Nora sometimes. It's not like when Daddy
used to come."
Natalie nodded, unable to speak. Even ten years later, the memory of Dan could stil tighten her throat. Cal ie never knew Dan Atwater while he was alive. An F.B.I. profiler, he died in the line of duty while saving Natalie from the Violet Kil er. Yet Cal ie had enjoyed a closer relationship with her father than any ordinary child could ever hope to know in this life. Al through her babyhood, she could fil herself with his love and comfort whenever she wished. Natalie, too, had been able to draw Dan into her mind and body, achieving the total unity of being that most lovers could only dream of.
Then Dan went to the Place Beyond, a region from
which even conduits could not summon the dead. Left alone with her grief, Natalie began to comprehend what life was like for normal people, al locked into their separate flesh, never knowing the incomparable joy of merging completely with a kindred spirit. It was
appropriate that the body consisted of cel s, Natalie mused, for it imprisoned the soul in solitary
confinement.
"It's just me," Cal ie said, echoing her thoughts. "Al the time. That's why I wanted to know if you liked having the Whos inside you. If they made you feel the way Dad did."
Natalie hugged her. "No, baby girl. Not like your dad."
"But you like it, right? If
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