Transcendence Read Online Free PDF

any whipped cream back in the States.”
    I tentatively poke the pale mass with my knife. “Maybe just some jam,” I say, taking a scone from the plate.
    “I insist.” He grabs my scone and smears it with the white cream and jam before putting it back on my plate. His hands are strong and smooth, and I find myself staring at them as he prepares the food. “You’re not one of those girls who doesn’t eat, are you?”
    “No,” I say, offended that he would even think that. “I eat plenty. It’s just that I don’t usually eat things that start with the word ‘clotted.’” I take a bite, and it’s as good and rich as hepromised, like thick whipped cream without too much sugar. So much for not being able to eat; I devour half of it before coming up for air. I try to regain some sort of dignity by sipping the tea, wondering if English people really drink it with their pinky out like they do on that PBS show Mom likes. Griffon just sits with his arms folded, watching me, so he’s no help.
    I put the cup down on the table after a sip of the watery tea, realizing through my swirling thoughts that neither of us has said a word in the past several minutes.
    “Sorry about Kat,” I say. “And all of her questions. She’s not much for history, but she loves a good ghost story.”
    “Most people do,” he says. “I get asked things like that all the time.”
    “But you don’t, right?” I ask. “Believe in them, I mean.”
    “No. Not ghosts. Although other people claim to see them here. Maybe the ghosts know I don’t believe in them and don’t bother showing up,” he says.
    “What about all of the people who died such violent deaths right here in the Tower? You don’t think there’s some sort of leftover energy floating around? Some sort of spirit activity trying to right the wrongs that were done to them?” I can’t believe I’m asking that, but there has to be some sort of rational explanation for what just happened out there. At this point, ghosts are the most rational thing I can think of.
    “No,” he says, looking at me strangely, stalling for just a beat too long. “I don’t.”
    I’m a little disappointed in his finality. Restless spirits are a much friendlier explanation than the fact that I might be losing it.Except I don’t
feel
crazy. If it wasn’t for unexpected Latin translations and visions of beheadings, I’d be just fine.
    “I just realized,” he says, sitting forward in his seat, “that we haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Griffon Hall.”
    “I know. Owen said.”
    He looks at me. “And you are?”
    “Oh!” I say. Of course. What an idiot. “Cole Ryan. Nicole really, but only my mother calls me that. It’s Cole to everyone else.”
    “Cole,” he repeats. “That’s nice. I’m guessing you’re not from around here.”
    “No,” I say. “My dad’s on a business trip and brought us along. We live in San Francisco.”
    Griffon nods slowly. He must meet people from all over the world here.
    “Have you ever been there?”
    “San Francisco?” he asks. “A few times. Where do you live in the city?”
    “Upper Haight. Just at the panhandle before Golden Gate Park.”
    “Is there still a Ben & Jerry’s there?”
    I smile. “Right around the corner from our house.”
    Griffon holds my gaze for a split second, then looks around at all of the other people in the café. “Are you enjoying your trip so far?”
    I search for something interesting to say. Pretty soon he’s going to notice that I’ve got the conversational skills of a first-semester foreign exchange student. “It’s been great.”
    “What else have you done?”
    I open my mouth to tell him about the master class I took with the London Symphony Orchestra and how I got to sit backstage atthe concert earlier in the week, about meeting some of the cellists I’d been worshiping for years and having the chance to play privately with them. But Griffon doesn’t know me as the cello prodigy. He only