make. Baloney, if you ask me. The only good thing I can say about the term is that it’s better than something like ‘Powerless.’”
“Okay, and what does it mean for George to be an Ambassador?” I watch as she runs the brush through her hair.
“An Ambassador is a fancy term for people who do business for the Elders. There aren’t many of them, which is why you’ve never heard of them.” She opensthe desk drawer and takes out a photo album.
“How many are there?” I ask, watching her.
“I’m not sure. I doubt there’s very many, though I don’t know much about it. I only recently found out that George became one. I thought he’d grow up to be an Elder, not one of their lackeys, but given his temperament, it figures.” She leafs through the pages of the photo album, almost tentatively.
“Histemperament?” I walk deeper into the room and almost trip over a dusty teddy bear.
“The Elders are a very solipsistic bunch, and George always held strong opinions about the outside world and its people. The fact that he’s here visiting a sick older relative is very typical of him, but no Elder would deign to leave their secret hideout for anyone outside their little circle.” She stops on onepage and her expression hardens.
“Would they bother helping me then, if they’re so self-absorbed?” I inch closer to see the image she’s looking at.
“If they think there’s something in it for them, sure, but there’s only one way to find out what they’ll do.” She flips the page, preventing me from seeing whatever it was that upset her. “Let’s get George to arrange the meeting.”
“And we’re stillpretending to be a couple? I’m not sure how comfortable—”
“No. That lie was for my parents. If they learn the truth about you, they might each get an aneurism.” She keeps her finger inside the photo album to save her spot, lifts her eyes from it, and gives me a wink.
“And George is more open-minded?”
“I have no idea, but it doesn’t matter. It’s pointless to lie to him, and even more so to theElders. More than that, it can be dangerous. A lie is not a good way to start a relationship.” She reopens the album and moves to another page.
“But what if the truth is worse than the lie?”
She stops her leafing. “They have the resources to learn the truth anyway. I wouldn’t be surprised if somehow they, or one of their Ambassadors, already know about you. And besides, saying, ‘I’m a Guidewho doesn’t know his heritage,’ will simply pique their curiosity.”
“So I tell them everything?”
“You can omit a bunch of things—that’s not lying—but you should tell them who your mother is and about the Enlightened taking your friends and family, especially since that will likely motivate them to help you. Just don’t talk about your Reader father unless you absolutely have to, and don’t mentionit to George. If they don’t know about that, so much the better, but even if they do, why raise a sour topic voluntarily?”
“What about the Super Pusher? Do I tell them about her?”
“I don’t know,” Hillary says. “Do whatever allows you to best investigate who might be behind this. You can withhold the information at first, like an ace up your sleeve, but if the situation calls for it . . .”
She turns another page, and a pained look overtakes her.
“What is it?” I ask, unable to resist.
“It’s a picture of her ,” Hillary says. “Come over here. It’s not fair for me to hide it from you.”
Ah. She’s looking at pictures of her dead sister—my mom.
I approach her and look over her shoulder. Like before, I don’t feel anything more than curiosity when I look at pictures of Margret, who, inmost of these, looks very young. I can’t even begin to understand what Hillary must be feeling as she looks down at these smiling faces.
“She was very pretty,” I say uncomfortably.
“I was jealous of her,” Hillary says. “She was so
“Okay, and what does it mean for George to be an Ambassador?” I watch as she runs the brush through her hair.
“An Ambassador is a fancy term for people who do business for the Elders. There aren’t many of them, which is why you’ve never heard of them.” She opensthe desk drawer and takes out a photo album.
“How many are there?” I ask, watching her.
“I’m not sure. I doubt there’s very many, though I don’t know much about it. I only recently found out that George became one. I thought he’d grow up to be an Elder, not one of their lackeys, but given his temperament, it figures.” She leafs through the pages of the photo album, almost tentatively.
“Histemperament?” I walk deeper into the room and almost trip over a dusty teddy bear.
“The Elders are a very solipsistic bunch, and George always held strong opinions about the outside world and its people. The fact that he’s here visiting a sick older relative is very typical of him, but no Elder would deign to leave their secret hideout for anyone outside their little circle.” She stops on onepage and her expression hardens.
“Would they bother helping me then, if they’re so self-absorbed?” I inch closer to see the image she’s looking at.
“If they think there’s something in it for them, sure, but there’s only one way to find out what they’ll do.” She flips the page, preventing me from seeing whatever it was that upset her. “Let’s get George to arrange the meeting.”
“And we’re stillpretending to be a couple? I’m not sure how comfortable—”
“No. That lie was for my parents. If they learn the truth about you, they might each get an aneurism.” She keeps her finger inside the photo album to save her spot, lifts her eyes from it, and gives me a wink.
“And George is more open-minded?”
“I have no idea, but it doesn’t matter. It’s pointless to lie to him, and even more so to theElders. More than that, it can be dangerous. A lie is not a good way to start a relationship.” She reopens the album and moves to another page.
“But what if the truth is worse than the lie?”
She stops her leafing. “They have the resources to learn the truth anyway. I wouldn’t be surprised if somehow they, or one of their Ambassadors, already know about you. And besides, saying, ‘I’m a Guidewho doesn’t know his heritage,’ will simply pique their curiosity.”
“So I tell them everything?”
“You can omit a bunch of things—that’s not lying—but you should tell them who your mother is and about the Enlightened taking your friends and family, especially since that will likely motivate them to help you. Just don’t talk about your Reader father unless you absolutely have to, and don’t mentionit to George. If they don’t know about that, so much the better, but even if they do, why raise a sour topic voluntarily?”
“What about the Super Pusher? Do I tell them about her?”
“I don’t know,” Hillary says. “Do whatever allows you to best investigate who might be behind this. You can withhold the information at first, like an ace up your sleeve, but if the situation calls for it . . .”
She turns another page, and a pained look overtakes her.
“What is it?” I ask, unable to resist.
“It’s a picture of her ,” Hillary says. “Come over here. It’s not fair for me to hide it from you.”
Ah. She’s looking at pictures of her dead sister—my mom.
I approach her and look over her shoulder. Like before, I don’t feel anything more than curiosity when I look at pictures of Margret, who, inmost of these, looks very young. I can’t even begin to understand what Hillary must be feeling as she looks down at these smiling faces.
“She was very pretty,” I say uncomfortably.
“I was jealous of her,” Hillary says. “She was so
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