The Atlas Six (The Atlas 1)

He watched Parisa swallow, her mouth gone dry.

“Eighteen,” she said.

“Liar,” he replied.

Her lips thinned.

“Fifteen,” she said.

“Thank you for your honesty,” Callum replied. He turned to the stairs, directing her up them. “So, you must have been what, eleven when you knew?”

“Twelve.”

“Right, right, of course. And your brother was seventeen, eighteen…?”

“Nineteen.”

“Naturally. And your sister, fourteen?”

“Yes.”

“So troubling. So very, very troubling.” Callum reached out to brush her cheek and she shrank away, repulsed. He laughed. “So it’s me you hate, then?”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You don’t want to hate me,” Callum replied, “because you suspect me of committing terrible crimes with such silly things as hatred.”

He stepped into the ballroom, holding out a hand. “Shall we?”

She glared at him. “You want to dance?”

“I want to see if you can keep up,” Callum assured her.

She rolled her eyes, but took his hand.

“I assume you think you’re winning,” she remarked, beginning an uncannily perfect waltz once he set his hands upon her waist, though he would have expected no less. Somewhere, music was playing. He assumed that had been her work.

“You tell me,” he said. “You’re the one who can supposedly read my thoughts.”

“You spend most of your existence in the singular belief that you’re winning,” she said. “To be honest, Callum, there’s nothing so very interesting to read.”

“Oh?”

“There’s not much going on in there,” Parisa assured him, her neck beautifully elongated as she carried out the waltz’s steps. “No particular ambition. No sense of inadequacy.”

“Should I feel inadequate?”

“Most people do.”

“Perhaps I’m not most people. Isn’t that the point?”

“Isn’t it just,” Parisa murmured, glancing up at him.

“You’re so very guarded with me,” Callum told her disapprovingly. “It’s rather starting to hurt my feelings.”

“I wasn’t aware you had any feelings available to hurt.”

He spun her under his arm, conjuring a little flash of color to marinate the walls.