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and, to her shame, had drifted off, awakened by Tildie’s scream. Fortunately enough they didn’t have to do anything as intrusive as taping wires to the child to keep track of what was going on in her mind and body. The monitoring systems had been built into the bed.
    He glanced toward the slumbering girl. “How bad was it?”
    “Her REM sleep, you mean? As bad as it gets. Her brain activity was off the charts.”
    “So there is every reason to believe it was identical to the dreams that caused the manifestations resulting in the termination of her parents’ lives.”
    She stared at him. “I wouldn’t have put it quite that clinically, but yes. Based on what she told me—and I have no reason to think she was lying—she was experiencing the exact same dreams that killed her parents and the police officer.”
    51 Her associate sniffed disdainfully. “The parents I could understand, but there was no excuse for the policeman. He was armed and a warrior. He had no business being killed by a girl’s dream manifestations.”
    “I’m sorry not everyone can be on a par with you,” she said.
    “It is not your fault, and thus you have no reason to apologize.”
    There seemed no point in explaining concepts such as sarcasm to him. “Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome. So,” he said briskly, “if her nightmares were going to manifest in any way, they would have done so during this incident.”
    “Yes, absolutely.” She checked over the instruments. “But there was nothing. No psychokinetic manifestations at all. Her tank, so to speak, is empty. By every possible scientific measure, she’s free of it.” She took a moment to process the fact, closing her eyes, breathing deeply, letting it out. Tears stung at the corners of her eyes, an uncharacteristically emotional response to the assessment of scientific data. “She’s free of it,” she said again.
    “In that case, Doctor,” he said, “I believe it’s time you told the world, so that others know there is hope for them at last.”
    “Yes. Hope. That’s exactly right. I’ll make the arrangements.” Then she paused and looked up at him tentatively. “Are you going to be there? Make your presence known? I could not have done it without you.”
    “Remember our agreement, Doctor. Insofar as the world knows, that is in fact exactly what you did. I will not have it any other way. And besides,” and what passed for a smile played across his lips, “when you’re having your press conference, I have plans to be…elsewhere.”
    “Do I want to know where?”
    “I think it wiser that you do not.”
    She took him at his word.

52  

SIX

    THE gentle rays of the morning sun filtered through the bedroom window. Emma was just beginning to awaken, but she had not yet opened her eyes. It was her experience that the moment she opened her eyes was typically the point at which the day began to head downhill. So she remained where she was, her right arm draped over the bare chest of the sleeping Scott Summers.
    The sheets were twisted around her. This told her that Scott had had a restless night, which never boded well. It told her that Scott had had a lot of dreams, and he wasn’t someone who could typically shake them off come morning light. They usually wound up having an impact on the rest of the day, making him brood even more than usual.
    Please don’t let it be about
her.
    That was Emma’s greatest fear. She knew perfectly well that yesterday had been the fifth anniversary of Jean Grey’s death. Scott’s great lost love, the red-haired, telepathic bint that he had been devoted to since practically the first day she’d walked into the school as a callow teenager. The woman he had loved, and married, and lost.
    53 Scott had said nothing about it, though. Hadn’t waxed nostalgic for her, hadn’t stood longingly in front of her portrait that hung there in the den, a constant reminder of her absence. Emma wondered if it was possible that he’d forgotten.