The sky was dark, but the stars were outshone by the strands of twinkling lights strung across the booths of one of the first funfairs of the season. The sound of the calliope music could be heard but it was on the other side of the festival, far enough from Oliver to be a dull drone.

It had been an unusually hot afternoon which had faded into a muggy evening. Oliver felt like he just couldn't breathe right, as if his lungs had to filter out the moisture before he could receive the benefit of the oxygen.

Oliver felt a spike of amusement twisted with irritation through his twin's link.

Noll, you're only twelve, Eugene said. Though he was some distance away, the words came to Oliver as if they were whispered into his ear. You're too young for your thoughts to be so scientific.

It was like Oliver had accidentally spoken out loud, and he didn't know what he had actually said. He had to go over in his head what thoughts Eugene had picked up on. It was the oxygen remark, Oliver remembered. He found himself shaking his head. It wasn't even worth a reply. Eugene was the type to act like he didn't care so that everyone was pleasantly surprised when he actually passed his classes.

It's a good thing I have you to always remind me of our age, Oliver said. I'd hate to end up thinking you are younger than you actually are.

Maybe it was a good thing. Eugene did manage to ground him. Otherwise, he might end up believing he was much older.

Oliver allowed his brother's thoughts to become far away, and then ended up closing their door. Eugene was interested in the rides of the fair. Oliver, simply, was not.

The festival was popular and thus, crowded, it took a lot of willpower to not constantly bump into people. If he was Eugene, he would shove the people while simultaneously saying excuse me. Not that most people would feel the shove, though. Eugene would say it was the thought that counts.

Oliver was interested in the stalls where the lights became more distantly spaced, where the crowds were dispersed, and only a few couples strolled along the walkways, hand in hand. To cover for his twin's disappearance, Oliver would owe Eugene at a later date.

He really was just a child, and he shouldn't be here alone. No place was ever truly safe. But he was Oliver Davis, and he was not afraid. He was capable of self defense. So what if he had been tired lately after practicing his PK? He could not get stronger if he did not use it, so he was pushing himself of his own accord.

When he walked far enough out, the stalls started to become little tents, or small empty spaces only protected by swathes of cloth hung overhead. Eventually oil lamps replaced the electric lights. He passed by many of the dimly lit spaces without a second glance. He knew the people within, and they knew him, for they were silent as he walked by instead of calling out their abilities. Since he had officially started working for the SPR, he had interviewed many self-styled psychics of the traveling fairs.

Oliver called them all fortunetellers, but most of the ones he talked to preferred more elegant titles: seer, spiritualist, psychic, soothsayer, and so on. Sir Dorey still held onto the notion of finding someone worthy of bringing into the lab. Oliver had yet to find one. Word had gone around about the small, inquisitive, and exasperating boy who called himself a parapsychologist. If he actually was, it meant he would not be spending any money with them today. For some reason, this made them unresponsive to Oliver's questions.

Oliver stopped in front of a stall he did not recognize. There was no reason to pick this one out—it looked the same as the rest with a little hand stenciled sign: Fortunes Told.

It was the intuition he relied on. This stall felt new and different.

He leaned in and let his eyes adjust. A small table, covered with a maroon cloth, was in the middle. Three people sat at it, one separated out, the other two close together. The lone person was, to Oliver's surprise, male. So many of the traveling fortunetellers seemed to be women of all ages.

The fortuneteller held onto a hand of a girl who looked barely out of her teens. The boy who sat next to her watched with impatient intent. The chair creaked when he shifted.

The fortune teller wore a loose shirt the same color as the table cloth. The candle on the table was so low it was in danger of going out with a single errant breath. The waning candle caused more shadows than highlights, and though Oliver had been silent he had the sensation that the fortuneteller looked straight at him.

"You'll need to wait your turn," the fortuneteller said. Oliver nodded and pulled back, hovering right around the makeshift doorway. The best research Oliver had acquired was when he was able to attend a session without being directly involved. They seemed to put on less airs if they did not think they had to entertain a researcher.

So it was to Oliver's frustration when he could not hear anything. The fortuneteller's voice was barely a murmur. Oliver could have been listening to a foreign language for the amount of words he could not understand.

Eventually chairs scraped and thank yous were spoken. Oliver thought he heard the clink of coins as they hit a tray but he knew that was not possible. Only paper bills would be passing hands in this day and age.

The patrons left the stall, in hushed but excited voices exchanged for each other's ears only. A brighter light appeared in the tent, and at the same time a strong hand caught Oliver's shoulder. He gasped as he was pulled into the main area of the stall. The light was a small battery operated lantern, which still did not light the space past the edges of the table.

"Sit," the fortuneteller said. Oliver remained standing, and folded his arms. He didn't need to be shorter than he already was. The man's face seemed young, but then, Oliver had never been good at ages.

So instead the fortuneteller sat across from him, leaning back and putting his feet on the edge of the table. It did not collapse from the weight as Oliver had expected. He wore leather boots that were cracked and worn.

"I've heard of you," the man said. His voice, Oliver realized, held no discernible accent. "I'm assuming you don't want your fortune read."

"Heard of me from where?"

"The other magickers, of course," the man said, waving his hand in dismissal. His skin was a golden bronze. "So what do you want to know?"

Oliver pulled out his pocket notebook and pen. His pale hands almost matched the white glow of the paper in the unnatural lamplight. He didn't like a subject who already had expectations of the interview, but he would have to make do. "How long have you believed you have psychic powers?"

"Since my brother attempted to drown me."

Oliver's pen did not pause as he wrote out the answer. Fairy tale answers made useless research. "How long ago was that?"

"Twenty years ago."

The man could have been a baby at the time, or he could have been five. He could have even been ten. Oliver did not ask. He would not give the man any satisfaction of knowing that Oliver could not do anything with these answers except to make Sir Dorey laugh.

The man took his feet off the table and moved closer. The sound forced Oliver to look up and see the man's face, now out of the shadows. His dark glossy hair hit his shoulders, and kohl was smeared around his eyes.

"How old are you?" the man asked with a smile. His white teeth and a partially hidden earring glinted in the light.

"I'm the researcher here," Oliver said firmly.

"Oh yes, of course," the man said. Oliver disliked the laughter in his voice. "What other questions can I answer for you?"

"What name should I put down on my research notes for you?"

"Josiah is fine."

"How long have you been peddling your skills for money?"

Normally that question got a rise out of a fortuneteller, but Josiah simply said, "A long while."

Oliver closed his notebook with a derisive snap. "Thank you sir, you've been very helpful. I'll not take up any more of your time."

This time Josiah truly laughed. "I'm sorry. I haven't helped you at all. Please do not blame me if I am distrustful of researchers, no matter their age."

Oliver gave one nod. Before he could formulate an answer, another couple showed up in the doorway.

"Come, sit," Josiah said as he stood up and ushered them in. "Do you mind if the boy stands in the corner? He is studying me."

The couple said they did not mind, and they sat across from Josiah.

"What are you looking to learn about today?" Josiah asked them. "Prosperity, Marriage, Children?"

They looked at each other, contented expressions on their faces. "Future of our family," the woman said.

Josiah said, "Please give me your hand."

The woman volunteered hers, and Oliver watched Josiah pour over it. The lantern was still on the table, and it somehow gave an eerie feeling. As if the candle had belonged, but this piece of technology did not. It caused the old world and new to crash together.

"You are married," Josiah asked.

"Yes," her husband confirmed.

What a leading statement, Oliver thought. The wedding ring on her opposite hand was obvious. She had unconsciously brought attention to it more than once.

"Your hand shows you'll have three children," Josiah said.

The woman smiled brightly. "That's exactly what we want. Can you tell me how soon?"

"You should wait a short while," Josiah said. "Don't be afraid to get all your affairs in order, so you can devote all the time necessary to the baby."

She nodded, her face serious. Her husband, Oliver noticed, suddenly looked irritated.

"Don't wait if you don't want to," he said to his wife.

She frowned at him. "No, he's right. If I finish the degree first, I'll be better off."

"But you won't use the degree anyway when you have a baby."

Her lips parted and she pulled her hand away as she turned to her husband. She opened her mouth to speak, and seemed to decide against it. She instead went to her purse and pulled out a wad of bills, handing them to Josiah in the same swift movement as she stood up and walked out.

Her husband sent Josiah a glare but followed her without a word.

Oliver had written their dialogue down so quickly that he hoped he could actually read his scrawl later. He took the seat that the woman had vacated, intrigued despite his original misgivings. Josiah was looking down at his hands. They were long and fine boned, and Oliver would not have thought they had much strength except for the vise grip he had felt on his shoulder earlier.

"Is your main art palmistry?" Oliver asked.

"I guess," Josiah said without looking up.

"They seemed displeased with their reading compared to the last couple," Oliver said, trying to draw him back into conversation.

"That's because I had told the last couple just what they wanted to hear," Josiah said, meeting Oliver's eyes. "This woman, I told her what I actually saw."

"You saw on her hand that she should wait for children?"

"No, I picked that up from her mind," Josiah said, as he tapped his temple for emphasis. "Her hand said she would have three children, but there were two marriage lines. I don't think the children will come from the man who had been sitting next to her, but that is still something you don't say when you have an angry spouse sitting across from you. I simply let her answer her own worries out loud."

Oliver paused in his writing. "So you lied for the last couple? Told them they would be happy until the day they die?"

"Yes," Josiah said.

"Would they be?"

"It could happen. The lines on hands do change."

"But as a psychic, doesn't that disturb you?" Oliver asked. "The lies are what give your profession the bad name."

"Sure, if you didn't have to worry if the husband was going to be outside your tent later, ready to settle this issue with fists or a knife," Josiah said. "Or when you have people get up and leave without payment because they didn't like what they heard, and it leaves you with the choice of eating, or using the money to buy a booth space at the next festival." Josiah leaned close to Oliver, who resisted the urge to flinch away. There was a light colored scar on the older man's jaw. It looked like it continued down onto his neck. "Maybe we haven't all been living with silver spoons in our mouths, eh?"

"I wasn't born with a silver spoon," Oliver said quietly.

"Did I say you were?" Josiah said. "I said you were now living with silver spoons. I know your history, Oliver Davis. Don't use your dark past only when it's useful to get what you want. Make sure you admit that your life just isn't that bad now."

Oliver's face hardened when at the same time a chill caressed his spine.

"You've stopped writing this all down," Josiah added. "Has it become too personal? It's all good research. Make sure to include, 'all street psychics lie because people can't handle the truth, not even the researchers.'"

They were still too close, but neither moved away.

Oliver finally said, "Did you do that reading honestly only because I was here?"

"No," Josiah said. "I did it honestly because she deserved it. Because when you're a psychic it comes to a point where it doesn't matter what people think or how much it could hurt you. You will know when to use your gift to help them, no matter the cost to yourself, because that is who you are." With a clatter of his chair, Josiah stood abruptly. "I hope, one day, you'll experience that."

Oliver had stood up at the same time. He clutched his little notebook to his breast as protection against the barbed words Josiah had thrown at him. But it did not help, because it felt like the points had embedded themselves around his heart.

"I'm only a researcher," Oliver said. The lie was suspended in the humid air. Josiah did not reply, and instead turned away.

"Good bye," Oliver said as he backed out of the tent. The air outside had cooled considerably. It took everything in his being not to run. He was not frightened by that man. He had dealt with many angry psychics since he had started helping Sir Dorey. This man was no different.

So he did not run, but he did hurry. He brushed by a few people in his haste, and felt emotions and saw images that were not his.

When he arrived back to the main area of the funfair, he was not bombarded by any of his relatives or fair workers, so he had not been reported missing. Eugene must have done his job well.

The festival lights and sounds jarred Oliver. To crawl into a dark corner and cover his ears seemed like a viable option at the moment.

A hand on his shoulder almost made him cry out.

"Whoa," Eugene said, recoiling his hand, "You all right?"

"Yes."

"You don't look all right." Eugene peered into his eyes. "Did something happen?"

"Not really," Oliver said. "I found a new fortuneteller, but he wasn't cooperative."

"Do you want me to go and make him cooperate?" Eugene said, a smile playing on his lips.

"No," Oliver said.

Eugene's smile slipped and his eyes narrowed. "What in the world could he have done to frighten you?"

"I'm not frightened," Oliver said. He rolled his shoulders, aware of his stiff posture and tight face.

"Can I read your report?"

With a sigh, Oliver handed over the notebook. Eugene took it to a bench that was unoccupied. When Oliver sat as well he left a space large enough for another person between them. Eugene looked at the space for a moment but didn't bother to reprimand his brother.

Eugene eventually said, "It looks normal enough. What actually happened?"

Oliver handed him the pen first, then described the rest of the encounter. Eugene diligently wrote it down.

"Had you given your name to any of the other fortunetellers?" Eugene asked. He chewed on the tip of the pen, and seemed unaware he was doing so.

"I'd have to check my research notes," Oliver said.

"You might have," Eugene said. "If someone asked for credentials or something." Oliver noticed that his brother's voice did not sound confident with this theory, though.

"It was just telepathy," Oliver said.

Eugene looked askance at his twin. "More than half of the time I can't get into your head, and you're telling me some stranger just lifted your name and life history in a moment?"

Oliver had to admit there might be a few flaws in his theory. "So he was skilled, but probably not even worth bringing into the lab."

"If he would even come," Eugene said with a sigh. "Why is it that the people who could prove their abilities don't want to?"

Because they have something to lose, Oliver thought. He found he was studying the lines on his hands. He made fists and forced himself to look up, and found Martin and Luella approaching.

Put it away, he told Eugene mentally. Luella had not been happy when she found out that Oliver was interviewing the local psychics on his own. He had told her he would stop.

"Are you boys already done?" Martin asked.

"Yeah," Eugene said. "I finally convinced Oliver to go on one of those spinning rides, and now he doesn't feel well."

Oliver nodded. It was not really a lie, after all. Oliver's hair was stuck to the back of his neck and his stomach kept doing flips.

He stood up, and fell.