“It’s not a trap for your modesty,” Callum assured her. “Not much of one, anyway, when surely we can all confirm it for a fact.”
“My modesty is not at issue,” Parisa replied. “I simply fail to see the relevance.”
“It’s an opening swing. Or, if you prefer, a control.”
“Is this some sort of polygraph?”
“You asked me why I was here in order to gauge some sort of truth from me, didn’t you? Given your own parameters, surely I can do the same.”
“Fine.” Parisa’s mouth tightened. “You’re asking when I knew I was beautiful? I’ve always known.”
“Well, surely that’s true in some sense,” Callum said, “but you’re not just ordinarily beautiful, are you? You’re the kind of beauty that drives men to warfare. To madness.”
“If you say I am.”
“So, when did you first understand it? Your power over others. Men, primarily,” he said, taking a step towards her. “Or was it a woman first? No,” he determined, catching the motion of her bristling in response. “Of course it was a man.”
“Of course it was a man.” She echoed it with a smile. “It always is.”
“You have a loneliness to you, you know,” Callum said, “but it’s a bit… manufactured, isn’t it? You’re not an only child; that would be a different sort of loneliness. Like Rhodes,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder, “she’s lonely and alone, but not you. You’re lonely because you choose to be.”
“Perhaps I simply loathe other people,” said Parisa.
“What’s your sister’s name?” asked Callum, as Parisa blinked. “You were close, of course, until you weren’t. Your brother has some sort of strong name, I suspect; masculine, difficult to fracture. He’s the heir, isn’t he? The oldest, and then your sister, and then you. He favored you, your brother, and your sister turned you away… and she didn’t believe you, did she? When you told her what you saw inside his mind.”
He could see Parisa faltering, forced to relive the shadows from her youth.
“Let’s see,” Callum said, and snapped his fingers, populating the walls with images and tones from Parisa’s past. “Money, that’s easy enough.” It would be false, a painting, unlike something she could do from his head, which would be a photograph. It was an inexact science, being an empath, but the important thing was to identify the proper sensations. For example, the golden light of her childhood and privilege. “Obviously you were well educated. Private tutors?”
Her jaw tightened. “Yes.”
“That stopped after a time. You adored your tutor, of course. You love to learn. But your brother, he didn’t like you paying so much attention to someone who wasn’t him. So sad! Poor little Parisa, princess of her family, locked inside her vault of riches like a sweet, caged bird. And how did you get out?” He considered it, splashing an image of her former self onto the wall. “Ah, of course. A man.”
The hazy illustration of young Parisa was swept away, carried off on the wind.
“Walk with me,” said Callum, and immediately Parisa’s knees buckled, lacking the strength to fight him. The others, he was sure, would follow, equally entranced. “More room this way. What was I saying? Ah, yes, someone saved you—no, you saved yourself,” he amended, “but you made him believe it was his doing. Was it… your brother’s friend? Yes, his closest friend; I can feel the betrayal. He expected something from you for his efforts… eternal devotion? No,” Callum laughed, “of course not. He wanted something much more… accessible.”
He paused, glancing at her, and the image of her following them along the walls as they walked was pulled into a darkened room, the light around it suddenly extinguished.
“How old were you?” he asked.
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.”