Luc Hasard didn't normally allow himself nervous habits. However, on the morning he walked into the lounge to find his daughter shooting sparks from her fingers to the lamp on the wall, his fingernails had long been chewed down to painful stubs.

"Ada!" he cried, dropping the bundle of papers he'd been carrying. "What are you doing? Didn't I forbid—"

"This isn't something you can just forbid and make go away, Dad," said Ada, turning to face him. "It's something we both just have to deal with."

"No! We cannot 'deal' with this! It is not something you can make a 'deal' with!"

"That's not what—"

"Ada, Ada, Ada, my treasure, my little wolf ... you do not understand." Luc raised his hands before his face, as if to bury it in them, but instead just kept them there, trembling, before lowering them again. He shook his head miserably. "Why is it you, why must it be you?"

"Why not?" Ada grabbed her glasses from a table and shoved them on. "Why not me? Why shouldn't a random chance favour us for once?"

"This is not favour, this is a curse! This is terrible misfortune—"

"You sound like an ignorant, fearful idiot," Ada said. "You're not even TRYING to understand this, you just—"

"Ada, no, it is you who does not understand." The sadness in her father's voice cut through Ada's indignation, made her shut her mouth as he gazed at her sorrowfully. "That you can do these things, this fact taken by itself, in a void containing only you and me this would be wonderful, in another world I would call it a miracle, but here, now, I cannot say this, except perhaps to call it a bad miracle."

Ada was staring at her father, a small but horrible feeling growing inside her.

"What do you mean?" she said, taking a step closer to him. He shook his head again as he bent to pick up his papers, his movements automatic.

"There is talk, the latest talk, the widest talk, even to myself who does not listen to talk does this reach, that there are children displaying such talents. What a cruelty, what further proof of the irrationality and pitilessness of the world do you need, that it is only children this happens to, how sad, how reckless. There are times I wish there were such a thing as an almighty god, simply so that I might curse him."

"I don't understand," Ada said. "There are others like me?"

Her father placed the now neatly-stacked papers on a nearby desk, shaking his head miserably. "You have heard me talk of Lumière Island? Of Lumière Hospital?"

Ada nodded, her eyes wide.

"What I have told you about that place is not a tenth of the true horror of it. I don't tell you this now to scare you, but to attempt to make you understand—"

"They're taking the children like me there." Ada stared at her father as he stared at her. "That's why..." Ada trailed off, her hand going to her mouth, trembling uncontrollably. "Dad..."

"Ada, my treasure..." He went to her, hesitantly put his arms around her, they had rarely touched even when Ada was young and the hug was awkward, but in that moment she could not imagine anything more comforting. Even so the tears came, for both father and daughter, and they held each other for a long while until either could talk.

"What do we do?" Ada asked as she stepped back, her voice still shaking. "I don't want to ... you can't let them take me there—"

"No, no, never. We hide," said her father, a resolve to his voice that Ada had never heard before. "The only way to detect these powers is to see a child using them. We can be clever, my daughter, we can hide exactly where they see us. As long as—what's wrong, my treasure?"

Ada was trembling again, fresh tears coming to her eyes.

"Dad," she said. "I did ... I did something so stupid..."

"What is it?"

"But it was Professor Greviste," she was now muttering, nervously pacing in a little circle. "Surely he wouldn't—Dad, I'm so sorry, I ... I've shown Professor Greviste what I can do, I wanted help and he was very kind, he didn't seem shocked or angry or anything—"

"No. No, no. No no no, this is not good, you cannot understand, you could not have understood, you cannot be blamed but this cannot be seen to be good, Ada ... perhaps you were foolish and so was I, at this moment blame will not help us, I will not see you go to that place, I would sooner die—"

"Dad, don't say that—"

"It is the truth, Ada!" Luc cried. "I would give my life for you, without a trace of hesitation, and I would pass from this world with the greatest smile upon my face knowing that you would be well, this is the TRUTH, all else is nothing more than theory but this I KNOW!"

Ada couldn't say anything, just shook her head, tears flowing freely down her face.

"Then what?" she said, her voice choked. "What can we do?"

"So we cannot hide," said Luc, watching his daughter cry with helpless sorrow on his face, "but perhaps you can run."

"WE can run!" Ada protested. Luc shook his head.

"No, no, of course I wish to protect you but I must be rational, what could I do with this weak body? With these arms that have never held a sword? No, my strength is here," he said, tapping his head, "and ONLY here. If your mother ... if your mother ... oh, Monique, you would know what to do! You would have the strength to protect our daughter no matter what dark forces gathered against her, and you WOULD be here but for the instinct of a base animal—"

Luc yelped suddenly—Ada had sent a tiny spark into his hand, little more than a pin-prick in strength. She hadn't wanted to hurt him, of course, but hearing him begin to rant about her mother was simply too painful—and too much a waste of time, a resource that Ada was becomingly increasingly certain they were running out of.

She watched as her father raised his hand and studied it, his eyes wide, and then he laughed, just once, an ironic bark of understanding.

"Of course," he said. "Of course, yes. Ada, your problem may become the solution. In yourself you have the means to protect your own safety. If only—"

Both father and daughter froze as there was a sudden, heavy knock on the apartment door. They stared at each other.

"So soon!" Luc hissed. "So soon they have come for you!"

"Dad ... I can't—"

"Hush now, hush," said Luc, looking at the door. "You will hide for now, hide well, and I will tell them you are not here, that you are on the roof or elsewhere, and buy for us some time."

"But—"

"Please, my treasure." Ada's father turned to look at her again. "You must be safe. Do you understand? I have been ... distracted. I see this, I am not blind. Sometimes I cannot control what it is that I do or do not do, but eventually I am aware." He reached out to stroke Ada's cheek, to push back a stray strand of her short brown hair, and he smiled gently at her. "If you are well, then I cannot be anything other than happy. Now, please go. Your room, or perhaps my laboratory, there are plenty of places to hide there."

Ada looked up at her father, her amber eyes soft and bright, then she stretched up on tip-toes to kiss his cheek, and then she moved past him and was away, towards his lab, to hide among the caged animals and desks piled high with papers.

Luc did not turn to watch his daughter go, knew that he must push her from his mind, that he must not think of her, that in order to do something that did not come naturally to him—be dishonest—he would have to free himself of all distractions and focus completely.

He took a breath, fixed his expression into a forced smile, and pulled open the door.

"Can I help you?" he said to the porter outside, and then he frowned. "You're not a porter."

The man standing outside was dressed in an old but fine black suit, with a cane held under one arm and an old-fashioned hat on his head.

"No," said the man, as he removed his hat. "I'm not a porter. And I don't believe it's you who I seek."

Luc took care not to react. His expression was passive, as was his voice:

"But I am the only one here—"

"I understand your caution," said the man. "But I assure you—well, perhaps I should begin with this."

The man smiled at Luc, his warm blue eyes sparkling.

"You can call me Fin."