Which thought?

Violet stared out of the window, trying to find the bees whose minds she could just feel on the edge of her consciousness. This was her not-quite-a-secret spot, behind the curtains on the window seat where no one could see her. Mother and father never spoke about anything important in the living room without first checking behind the curtain for little ears that weren't supposed to be listening.

Violet had never understood why. What was the point of keeping their mouth silent when their thoughts were so very, very loud?

A bee buzzed past the window and for a moment Violet could clearly see its thoughts, flowers of every descriptions laid out in its memory in a complex pattern that nevertheless told the bee exactly where to go and what to do. Violet breathed in and closed her eyes, focusing on the flowers, imagining that she could fly too and follow the nectar where it led. . .but then the bee was out of range, its thoughts a distant hum.

Grandma had taught her to focus on the bees. When too many people were thinking too many things, then listen for the bees. If the bees were hiding, listen for the ants, or the earwigs, or the earthworms, any of the tiniest creatures. They led the simplest, cleanest lives.

But the bees were best. Their minds were full of patterns and color that all made perfect sense when you saw it through their eyes and that left you with a feeling of certainty even after they had flown away.

Grandma had been the only other person Violet knew who could read thoughts. The two of them had sat for hours, silent on the outside, but through their thoughts sharing absolutely everything. Grandma had taught her about the bees. Grandma had also taught her how to read, so that she could better understand people who thought only in words, like mother. She'd shown Violet how not to jump to conclusions when watching the thoughts of those whose inner worlds played out through pictures (like Grandma and Violet's both did) because pictures meant different things to different people. She'd even taught Violet how to listen for the voiced thoughts, the ones right at the top of everyone's consciousness that sounded just like spoken words. Some people didn't hear their voice (or any voices) in their heads, but that was just because their voice was so quiet that they couldn't hear it.

But Violet could.

Grandma was gone now. Violet had been in the room when her final thought had flickered and died. "It will be alright Violet. Listen for the bees."

That had been a year ago, when Violet was ten. Now she was eleven, and it was Time She Got Over Grandma's Death (or so mother's mind insisted). But how could she do that when she was so terribly alone?

A butterfly landed on briefly on the mantle, full of short thoughts for a short life, and Violet let herself be caught up the lazy flapping of its wings as it sunned itself. But then--

"Violet!"

Where is Violet, lazy girl, stupid girl...

Mother was looking for her. With a sigh, Violet pushed back the curtain and swung her legs over the edge of the window seat, landing on the ground to wait patiently for whatever incomprehensible task mother had for her now.

As mother approached, her thoughts grew stronger, and it was not only the high-level voiced ones Violet could hear.

"Uncle Robert is almost here. How do we behave when we have a visitor?" mother asked, the moment she stepped into the room.

A visitor, THE visitor, coming now, now NOW--

--straighten the cushions make the child smile open the curtains show off the home--

--put on a pretense, everything is fine--

--what if what if what if--

Violet strained hard and was relieved to find a squirrel in the ceiling, restfully feeding her babies, thinking of little more than taking a nap.

"I am to be silent and good, mother," said Violet, but she was too late. Mother had already given an impatient sigh and pushed past her to wrench the curtain into place.

"Would it kill you to smile occasionally?" mother demanded. "Stand next to father's chair."

The first was a question that mother didn't want the answer to, and the second was an easily followable command, so Violet darted over to father's chair, confused by the huge wave of irritated words from mother's mind that tried to push through the calming thoughts of the squirrel above them. She had done as asked, hadn't she?

"So you can respond quickly," mother muttered. Violet listened, but when no instruction seemed forthcoming, she focused once more on the squirrel.

Father entered, giving mother a nervous nod and Violet a broad smile. He took his usual seat and gave Violet a quick hug.

"Hello, my darling," he said.

Violet smiled back. Father never expected her to speak if she didn't want to. Gratefully, she left the now sleeping squirrel and let herself see father's thoughts. It was one of her favorite things to do, even better than listening to the bees.

There, front and center in father's mind, was Violet, a smiling, beautiful, happy child engulfed in light, a bright spot in an otherwise darkly lit mind. Violet loved knowing how father saw her. It made her feel far less lonely, even if he couldn't understand her the same way Grandma had.

But today his deeper thoughts were troubled. Unlike mother, whose mind turned into a frenzied task list of all the things that she could control and change and manipulate to solve whatever problem she was facing, father's thoughts turned to imagery of death and destruction, no hope of relief in sight.

Just below the smiling image of Violet was father, as he saw himself, small and bent, with claws reaching at him from behind and scraping the back of his neck, and below that was an image of the family huddling under a too-narrow bridge as a storm raged and the river water rose.

There were many more images besides, but Violet pulled her mind back and gently squeezed father's hand. The image of herself flared brighter as he smiled at her again.

Sometimes it was rather overwhelming, being the only bright spot in her father's life.

There was a knock at the door followed by the sound of the maid opening it. Then, footsteps, the clipped, short steps of the maid followed by the longer thuds of Uncle Robert.

As soon as the man swept into the room, the images in his mind flooded Violet's own.

The ivy growing over the front door, an untenable mess in Uncle Robert's mind (but a Beautiful, Well Kept Decoration in mother's), the rundown hallway with its threadbare carpet that desperately needed to be replaced (that was an exquisite family heirloom to father) and now the room they were in, a space entirely devoid of color where two monsters sat, their twisted offspring standing between them.

Violet blinked at the last image and looked around the room in confusion. There were no monsters, only mother and father and herself, and the room was her favorite in the whole house, bright and airy with the curtains open, cool and welcoming when they were closed, the blue and white tones that mother had chosen giving at once a merry and stately appearance.

"Letting the place go I see, William," Uncle Robert announced, as he sat.

Mother's mind flooded with words of shame, but in father's a flame spurted right at the edge of his mind and his fist clenched.

"Not at all," said father. "It's exactly as we want it to be."

Uncle Robert snorted, "If my brother saw what you'd done to the place--"

"My father always meant for the estate to come to me," said father. "And you know it."

"Then he should have said as much in his will instead of leaving it all to that batty wife of his. The precedent is clear: The estate goes to the surviving brother unless otherwise stated. That is me. Let's get to the point: it's been a year since your mother pegged it, when do you intend on moving out?"

Fire flooded father's mind, consuming everything except the ever-present image of Violet.

"We don't," said father. "I will contest you until my last breath."

Mother drew in breath sharply. She sat a little straighter and glanced at father, her mind filled with. . . we can't do that can we do that can we can we can we. . .

Uncle Robert's eyes narrowed. In his mind, the monsters grew bigger. Rather than the sad, pitiful abominations he had imagined them to be when he'd walked in, he now saw them, father especially, as lion-like beasts, claws at the ready.

"I've already given you a year's grace. To mourn your mother. What more do you expect?"

"A year of constant harassment! Lawyer's letters. Policemen." Mother's voice crackled with anger, the words in her mind far harsher than those she dared to speak aloud. "What sort of 'grace' is that?"

Uncle Robert leaned back and waved an uncaring hand. "It's the thought that counts," he said.

Violet's heart stopped. Her breathing ceased. Her eyes widened and her mind cleared of everything. For a brief moment, her entire body stopped as her young mind tried to comprehend the words her great-uncle had just uttered.

Then, the world came back into focus, and before she could stop herself, Violet asked, "Which thought?"

Uncle Robert's eyes narrowed at being addressed by a creature so far beneath him that he'd barely noticed she was in the room. "How impertinent," he said to father. "You should control your--"

"Which thoughts counts, Uncle Robert?" Violet demanded, interrupting. She let go of father's hand to take a step closer. "The thought right at the top where you pretend that we are monsters to make it easier to throw us out of our rightful home?"

Uncle Robert's eyes widened in shock

Violet looked deeper. "Or, perhaps the thought under that one, where your piles and piles of gold coins collapse into a pit so deep you can't see the bottom."

"Now really--"

Uncle Robert's face was red with rage, but there was also another color visible, a little bit of grey around the edges of his mouth and eyes.

A bit like how Grandfather had looked before he had died.

Violet pushed on relentlessly. "Or is it the thought beneath that, the one where you are naked and hungry in the wilderness because everyone left when your wealth did."

Uncle Robert gripped the arm of his chair. There was a little more gray in his face now, accompanied by some blue. "Now look here--" he started to say, but Violet was angry and very, very far from finished.

With ease, she pushed through the many layers of images in Uncle Robert's mind. Mother said something, but she was too busy to hear it. Deeper and deeper she dove, ignoring everything, looking for the deepest thought of all.

She gasped when she found it.

"Or maybe,' she said quietly, "the thought that counts, the most important thought at all, is the one you keep all the way at the bottom of your mind, the big, secret thought, the one you don't want anyone to know about." Violet stepped close and said in a low, clear voice, "The thought that maybe, just maybe, you shouldn't have poisoned your brother, father's father, my grandfather."

Uncle Robert clutched his chest, his face an unhealthy mix of white and blue.

"Help," he gasped, his other arm reaching out towards father.

No one moved.

"Help," he whispered again. He fell to the floor, breath rattling as he fought for air. And then, blessed silence.

Violet turned to her parents. She chose to look at their faces before their thoughts. Shock. Worry. But also relief.

She dove into their thoughts. In mother's she saw a task list grow: call the doctor call the police call the coroner get it OUT of here out out out

And in father's mind, the image of herself shone brighter than it ever had before.

"How did you know that?" father asked, his face white with shock.

Violet searched her parents' minds. What did they need? What did they want?

A clear, simple, easy answer.

Violet stifled a sigh.

"Grandma told me," she said.

In a way, it was true.