Louisa stopped in the communal kitchen’s doorway and watched him absently brush his nose with one floured knuckle. He’d spilled flour on the counter, and was scraping it into a paper towel. Flour puffed into the air like tiny, coded smoke signals and settled on his black T-shirt, just over his stomach. She recognized eggs and butter, but not the long, thin black item—seemingly organic—that he’d placed next to one of his mixing bowls. His supplies were arrayed on the island counter in the center of the research facility’s kitchen. “What’s up?” Devlin asked, intent on what he was doing, but apparently recognizing her without looking up, almost as if he was a telepath, like her. He seemed different without his lab coat—he worked with clairvoyants, one section over from where she regularly both underwent testing and administered tests with the empaths and telepaths. “I was only passing,” Louisa said. “I’m making cookies,” Devlin said, glancing up at her and grinning his blinding grin.
