Pippa launched into her prepared speech: “Where I come from, we speak not with our tongues but with our hearts and our minds.” She ignored the very audible snicker that came from the wings. She had to focus. Otherwise, she would block. “With our minds,” she repeated significantly and raised both arms.
She closed her eyes as though to signify that she was busy looking deep into the mysteries of the universe. In the darkness, she heard a rustling sound, the scuffling of shoes, a sneeze, a short yip of surprise and then an apology—the usual sounds. When she was satisfied that the silence had gone on long enough, she opened her eyes again. “Can I have an audience volunteer?”
“Oh!” The old woman in the front row looked alarmed when Pippa’s eyes landed on her. She was fanning herself energetically with one of the illustrated guides. She had a ferociously noble-looking nose, with nostrils that quivered like a frightened bunny’s, as though they were besieged by terrible smells from all sides. “Not me, please. Oh, no. I could never.”
“I’ll do it.” A man stood up from the second row. Pippa felt a rush of gratitude. Picking the audience volunteer was the worst part—she hated the moments of ticking silence, the awkward laughter, the protests.
The man made his way quickly to the stage. He was tall and had a thin mustache above a very pleasant, toothy smile. An honest face. That was a good thing: for whatever reason, Pippa could think her way into the pockets and purses of honest people more easily. She supposed that liars had all kinds of blocks up.
“The name’s Bill Evans,” he said, putting two fingers to his hat brim. “Reporter.”
Pippa felt like smiling back, but she couldn’t. It would be out of character.
“Thank you, Mr. Evans. Your job is very simple. All you have to do is stand still. Close your eyes, and open your mind. And I will tell you what you have in your pockets.”
Actually, it wasn’t necessary for him to close his eyes. He didn’t have to stand still, either—he could be dancing a jig, for all she cared. But it was all part of the show.
“In my pockets?” Mr. Evans instinctively put his hands in his trouser pockets, as though worried that Pippa would steal something with her mind. “I’m afraid you’ll find them disappointing.”
“That’s for us to decide, Mr. Evans,” she said, and the audience tittered.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, fighting back a wave of panic. This was it. The moment it came—or didn’t. Focus. Deep breaths.
She felt a huge, stubborn pressure—that was his mind, bumping up against hers, elbowing her off. She was surprised. Harder than she thought. She tried once again to think her way into his fingers, into the fabric lining, into the fabric itself. It was like pushing through layers of treacle and sludge.
“Well?” Mr. Evans sounded amused. “Can I open my eyes yet?”
“A minute, please.” Pippa fought a wave of panic. She was going to choke—in front of Max, in front of everyone. “The workings of the inner eye won’t be rushed.”
“Whatever you say, little lady,” Mr. Evans drawled, and Pippa heard a chuckle from someone in the audience.
Just then, she got it: a break in the folds, a separation in the tissue, and she wrapped her mind comfortably around the objects the man was carrying. She opened her eyes.
“A money clip,” she blurted out.
Mr. Evans smiled, showing all his teeth. “Anyone could have guessed that.”
“A silver money clip engraved with the initials WDE, and containing exactly seventeen dollars.”
Mr. Evans’s smile faltered. He reached slowly into his pocket, extracted his money clip, and counted the bills slowly.
“She’s right,” he announced to the audience. This was greeted by a low murmur and scattered applause.
Pippa wasn’t done yet. “Also,” she said loudly, and the applause died away, “a roll of breath mints, containing four mints; three quarters and one nickel; a cigarette case; a set of two keys, one brass, one iron, held together on a silver key ring; a notebook; and two pens, one running very low on ink.”
By now Mr. Evans’s face was pale. “I’ll be scratched,” he said. “She’s right about everything!” The audience broke out into full applause. Mr. Evans leaned in closer, so only she could hear. He whipped out the notebook and one of his pens and began scribbling in it. “You read the New York Screamer? No? Best paper this side of the Atlantic. Check page six tomorrow. I’ll give you a write-up.”
Pippa couldn’t stop herself from smiling then. She took a short bow as the audience continued applauding. She even heard several murmurs of “Good show,” and “Excellent. Very excellent.” The old woman in the front row had redoubled her fanning and was staring at Pippa openmouthed, as though she were enchanted.
Pippa cast a triumphant glance toward the wings. Even Max looked impressed, although as soon as she met Pippa’s eyes, she scowled.
Pippa practically floated off the stage. Max was preparing to go on.
“Don’t choke,” Pippa said to her.