“I’m fine.”
“Are you? You’re distracted, you’re fidgeting, and you won’t look me in the eye. Do I need to be worried about you?” Myfanwy’s eyebrows knit in confusion. Then she realized what he was talking about.
Part of the cover story she had concocted for her family was that she had spent many years in a drugged state as part of the treatment for her unspecified condition. At the time, she’d thought it was a good lie. It had gone some way toward explaining why, once she’d been “cured,” she’d never tried to contact her brother and sister. But then, in a regrettable fit of creativity, she’d embroidered on the lie and implied to Bronwyn that she still had some residual addiction issues. Bronwyn had dutifully passed this on to their brother, and now he was apparently afraid she was relapsing.
“Oh, no, Jonathan. I’m fine, I swear to you.” Despite the ridiculousness of the situation, despite the danger, she couldn’t help but be a little pleased. It was a nice feeling, having a protective older brother. He still seemed dubious. “It’s the, um, crowds and the noise.” You know, my fictional agoraphobia? “I thought I’d be all right, but it’s all a little overwhelming.”
“Of course!” he said anxiously. “Would you like to sit down? We could go inside, see if there’s somewhere quiet.” He started to lead her into the stadium, taking her right by the glowing man, and she caught Jonathan’s hand.
“Yes, I’ll go to the ladies’ in a second.” She drew him closer to speak quietly. “There’s a man behind you — he is the husband of a client of mine. And the woman he is with is not my client.”
“Ah. Awkward.”
“Yes, that’s why I was a bit distracted.”
“Are you going to say anything?” he asked.
“Probably not. I’d prefer just to feel really uncomfortable every time I see her,” said Myfanwy. He smiled. Behind him, the suspect was turning to go. “Anyway, I might just head to the bathroom and splash some water on my face. I shall call you once I’ve found my people.”
“Jolly good,” said Jonathan. “You don’t have any tips for the horses, do you?”
“Totes Pferd in the fifth, I heard.”
“Interesting. Maybe I’ll go place a bet.”
“Go! Bet! And I shall talk to you soon.” She patted him on the arm and then took off after the suspect, who was marching up the steps into the grandstand.
It turned out to be quite the worst place in the world to try and tail a man. The dress code meant that they all looked roughly the same. There was some variation, of course, with black morning suits and gray morning suits and gray top hats and black top hats (although colored ribbons on the hats were strictly forbidden). But for a shortish woman trotting along in high heels and a dress whose designer had prioritized looking great over swift movement, maintaining a bead on one specific male was not easy.
To make matters more difficult, the suspect was not sauntering along easily but appeared to be in something of a hurry himself. He had passed through the stadium and was now briskly trotting down the stairs toward the gardens, where even more men in morning suits were clotting together. Myfanwy pulled out her phone and dialed.
“Myfanwy, what is it?”
“Ernst, I have him. I’m on his tail,” she said.
“Where are you?”
“I’m passing the big statue of the horse head, and he’s moving toward the marquees.” She gave the best description she could, even though her quarry was as nondescript as it seemed possible for a person to be.
“Right, I’m coming to you,” said Ernst. “Be careful, Myfanwy. Keep your distance from him until I get there.”
“I just want one photo of him, and I — bugger. Where is he?” Myfanwy stopped, bewildered. She could have sworn she had not taken her eyes off him, but now he was nowhere to be seen. “Ernst, I need to concentrate. Come find me.” She hung up and looked around intently. Where did he go? She shifted her perception, suddenly becoming aware of the crowd’s physiologies, but there was no sign of that peculiar flickering from before. She turned around to find that her quarry was right behind her, looking at her intently. It was like realizing you were standing next to a person made of neon tubes.
“Oh! Goodness, hello!” she exclaimed in surprise. “I didn’t realize someone was there.”
“You are following me,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?” she said, and she gave the sort of incredulous laugh that someone who hadn’t been doing just that would give.
“If you want to tail someone, I recommend that you don’t wear a hat that looks like it belongs to the pope of the jungle. Now, why are you following me?”
“This is dreadfully embarrassing,” said Myfanwy, doing her best to look dreadfully embarrassed. “I... the truth is, I thought you were attractive and I wanted to introduce myself.” There is no way he is going to buy this. But play it cool. You don’t even know that this man is the murderer. “My name is Nicola.” She smiled, but he did not smile back. “Perhaps we could exchange telephone numbers?” She held up her phone, ostensibly to get his number but really to get a picture of him, and a sharp pain cut through her hand. “Ow!” she exclaimed, and dropped her phone. She looked down to see that a crystal had erupted out of the casing of the phone and sliced into the palm of her hand. Blood was quite enthusiastically coming out of a cut there.
She glanced up and saw that the man was breathing heavily. His pupils were dilated, and his teeth were bared. It was not a very wholesome look.
“Well, that settles that question,” Myfanwy said flatly. He seemed startled, and at that moment she clenched her powers around his nervous system so that the expression froze on his face. “You’ve probably figured out that I was lying. I actually don’t find you attractive at all. Especially because of what you do. You see, it’s déclassé to murder people, but it’s a particular faux pas to do it at Royal Ascot.” He couldn’t answer, of course, but the reaction in his eyes was as horrified as she could have asked for. “Let’s have a little sit-down on this convenient bench.”
Her hand was throbbing, but she ignored it while she twisted his muscles with her mind. He jerkily stepped over and sat down. She bent down to retrieve her phone and then sat next to him, looking through her purse for a handkerchief or something to stanch the bleeding. No one around them appeared to have noticed anything amiss.
“Well, you’ve successfully murdered my phone,” she said sourly. “Congratulations. What did you think would happen when you did that?” Of course, he still didn’t say anything, because she had a firm grasp on his vocal cords. She unearthed a half-empty packet of tissues from her purse and clutched it in her hand. “Now we’ll just have to wait here for a while. I don’t want to try to marionette you through this crowd.” His fixed look was peculiar enough to garner some glances from passersby, but she didn’t have any experience with manipulating facial expressions. If I try to give him a smile, I might accidentally break his face. Which I suppose would be a bad thing. Then she frowned. He might be sitting rigidly, but his brain was a hive of activity. Myfanwy hesitated; she’d never tried turning off someone’s thoughts before. I’m not even certain whether it’s pos —