“What are we praying for?” he asked softly.
“Um—anything you want?” I guessed.
“We’re praying to God, right?” Nudge checked to make sure.
“I think that’s the general idea,” I said, not really having much of a clue. And yet, an odd sensation came over me, like, if you were ever going to ask for anything, this would be the place to do it. With the high, sweeping ceiling, all the marble and glory and religion and passion surrounding us, it felt like this was a place where six homeless kids just might be heard.
“Dear God,” said Nudge under her breath, “I want real parents. But I want them to want me too. I want them to love me. I already love them. Please see what you can do. Thanks very much. Love, Nudge.”
Okay, so I’m not saying we were pros at this or anything.
“Please get Celeste back to me,” Angel whispered, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. “And help me grow up to be like Max. And keep everyone safe. And do something bad to the bad guys. They should not be able to hurt us anymore.”
Amen, I thought.
With surprise, I saw that Fang’s eyes were shut. But his lips weren’t moving, and I couldn’t hear anything. Maybe he was just resting.
“I want to be able to see stuff,” Iggy said. “Like I used to, when I was little. And I want to be able to totally kick Jeb’s butt. Thank you.”
“God, I want to be big and strong,” the Gasman whispered, and I felt my throat close up, looking at his flyaway pale hair, his eyes shut in concentration. He was only eight, but who knew when his expiration date was? “So I can help Max, and other people too.”
I swallowed hard, blinking fast to keep any tears at bay. I breathed in heavily and breathed out, then did a surreptitious 360. The whole cathedral was calm, peaceful, Eraser-free.
Had that been Jeb I saw, back with the cops? Were the cops really cops or were they goons from the School—or from the Institute? What a bummer that Angel had dropped Celeste. Jeez, the kid finally gets to have one thing she cares about, and then fate rips it from her hands.
“Please help Angel about Celeste,” I found myself muttering, and realized I had closed my eyes. I had no idea who I was talking to—I’d never really thought about if I believed in God. Would God have let the whitecoats at the School do what they had done to us? How did it work, exactly?
But I was on a roll now, so I went with it. “And help me be a better leader, a better person,” I said, moving my lips with no sound. “Make me braver, stronger, smarter. Help me take care of the flock. Help me find some answers. Uh, thanks.” I cleared my throat.
I don’t know how long we were there—till my kneecaps started to go numb.
It was like a beautiful peace stole over us, the way a soft breeze would smooth our feathers.
We liked this house. We didn’t want to leave.
99
I gave serious thought to staying in that cathedral, hiding, sleeping there. There were choir lofts way up high, and the place was huge. Maybe we could do it. I turned to Fang.
“Should we—” I winced as a sharp pain burst in my head. The pain wasn’t as bad as before, but I shut my eyes and couldn’t speak for a minute.
The images came, sliding across my brain like a movie. There were architectural drawings, blueprints, what looked like subway lines. Double helixes of DNA twisted and spiraled across my screen, then were overlaid with faded, unreadable newspaper clippings, staccato chunks of sound, colored postcards of New York. One image of a building stayed for a few seconds, a tall, greenish building. I saw its address: Thirty-first Street. Then a stream of numbers floated past me. Man, oh, man, oh, man—what did it mean?
I took a couple deep breaths, feeling the pain ease away. My eyes opened in the dim light of the cathedral. Five very concerned faces were watching me.
“Can you walk?” Fang asked tersely. I nodded.
We went out through the tall doors behind a group of Japanese tourists. It was too bright outside, and I shaded my eyes, feeling headachy and kind of sick.
As soon as we were away from the crowd, I stopped. “I saw Thirty-first Street, in my head,” I said. “And a bunch of numbers.”
“Which means . . .” Iggy prompted.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe the Institute is on Thirty-first Street?”
“That would be nice,” said Fang. “East or west?”
“I don’t know.”