Grandfather Clocks

"Cathy?" John's querulous voice floated in from the front foyer. "You have some super-people."

Cathy put her pen down (the school forms would just have to wait a bit) and poked her head out of her office. Three teens, no two teens and preteen, were standing in her foyer. The oldest one, probably fifteen or so, was glaring at John with the horrified gawp of a teenager who couldn't believe some adult had just said what they'd said, so embarrassing. Their clothes and backpack were sturdy, well-cared for, and a year out of fashion — Cathy would bet they had been bought last year, a little big on the girl, and worn since. The middle one, male, had the lanky build of a sprinter and the rumpled clothing of a speedster who'd forgotten to slowdown to normal human walking speeds recently. The youngest, the preteen girl, was obviously related to the boy, what with those cheekbones and nose. She was looking around the foyer with a look of awe on her face; Cathy regretted letting John and his ostentation rule the foyer decorations yet again. Her eyes widened a bit when the girl trailed a hand along the grandfather clock ticking away next to the door before pulling back with a wince. Cathy knew the clock's history — she had a psychohistorian on her hands. 

The poor girl.

Interesting, the older girl was wincing now with a look of concern at the younger. Delayed reaction. Probably an empath then.

"Well, don't just stand there," Cathy said, gesturing into her office. "Come in and tell the nice witch why an empath, a speedster, and a psychohistorian want her help."