Title: Changeling, Part One of Four

Author: Emma

Characters: Canonical Torchwood Three members… sort of.

Rating: Some chapters definitely not safe for work.

Disclaimer: Oh, please. If I owned them, would I let some of those idiots write the scripts? And if I were making any money off them, would I be where they could find me?

Summary: A young girl’s mysterious history could bring disaster to Cardiff and Torchwood Three…

           Gwen sniffed ecstatically at the glossy white box in her hands. She had been given strict instructions by Sister Enid, the bishop’s cook, not to open it until she got to the Hub. She had behaved; the terrifying old nun probably had ways of finding out if she disobeyed. But the smell was driving her spare.

            When she stepped through the cog door she had to fight to keep her expression bland. All her colleagues, even Ianto, were standing around oh-so-casually trying to look busy and failing miserably. She held up the box in triumph.

            “Who’s ready for a sugar rush?” she asked. “Ianto, coffee?”

            He raised an eyebrow. “Brewed five minutes ago. Conference room.”

            They trailed after her as she went up the stairs. “I feel like the pied piper,’ she said as she put the box on the table. “Let’s see.”

            The box was filled with small pastry puffs dusted with sugar and redolent with the scent of almonds.

            “Buñuelos de viento!” Jack crowed and grabbed one. “I wonder what she used for filling… ummm, mocha almond cream.”

            Everyone reached in and for a few minutes the room was filed with the sounds of chewing and moans of pleasure. Ianto took a few minutes to pour the coffee, and they all settled in to enjoy.

            “What did you call these, Jack?” Gwen asked.

            “Buñuelos de viento. Wind puffs. When I was a student in Salamanca my landlady used to make these for Sunday dinner. She filled hers with red currant preserves with a little brandy mixed in.”

            He was reaching for another puff when his phone rang.

           
            “Hello, Estelle!” He said, obviously pleased. “No, of course not…… yes. We’ll be right over.” Putting away the phone, he reached for his mug and drained it in one gulp. “Sorry, kids. Duty calls.”

            “Why is it,” Owen groused, “that we always get these calls when we’re eating?”

            “It’s the Torchwood version of the butter-side-down rule,” Ianto answered blandly. “And the better the food the worse the situation.”

            “So this should be a shitstorm, yeah?”

            “It might be,” Jack said. “Estelle has been treating a young girl, Jasmine Pierce. She was brought to the Episcopal Court charged with practising the dark arts.” At Gwen’s stricken expression he patted her hand. “She was cleared quickly enough, but the Court determined that Jasmine would benefit from psychiatric therapy.”

            “That’s Court speak for child abuse they can’t prove,” Tosh said.

            “Estelle thinks there might be more to it than that. She wants us to consult.”

            “Did she say what the problem is?” Owen asked.

            “No, but she’s brought us cases twice before and both times it was psychic attacks by supernatural entities.” He stood up. “Tosh, find anything you can on Jasmine Pierce and her family. Owen, start reading up on those cases. Ianto, call Kathy and see if you can get a peep at the Court records, or whatever she will give you. Gwen, with me.”

            She trotted after him. “Where are we going?”

            “Saint Nicholas Children’s Hospital. That’s where Estelle works.” He studied her unhappy expression for a few minutes. “If this is too hard, I can ask Tosh.”

            “No! It’s not that. My experience with the Court was actually quite positive. It’s just… my first job when I joined the police was office support on the Tin Street case.”

            “Oh. Ouch. I can see how this would bring back bad memories. But if you’re sure…”

            “Yes! I’ll be fine.”

            St. Nicholas turned out to be a fancy private hospital set on its own grounds behind a high security fence. Jack’s Estelle was a lovely woman in her late sixties wearing a cerise-colored suit Gwen would have happily given her eyeteeth for, and a welcoming smile. Her office was clearly set up for children – low tables and toys everywhere – but there was a small, delicate antique desk and a comfortable-looking sofa and chairs by the window.

           She watched as Jack enfolded her in his arms and kissed her cheek. “Estelle, this is Gwen Cooper, my new girl. Gwen, this is Estelle Vaughan, my best girl.”

            “At least you didn’t say my old girl!”

            “They day I say something so stupid I’ll let you section me.” He ushered everyone to the seating area. “Tell us about Jasmine Pierce.”

            “She’s eleven years old, but seems a little older. Physically, she’s just exquisite. Long blond hair and blue eyes, and the most beautiful hands. Usually the kinds that get picked on in school are the odd ones and the plain ones. Jasmine looks like the girl who always gets the leading role in the class play.”

            “But she was getting picked on?” Gwen asked.

            “Viciously. That’s how she ended up in the Court. An accusation from a vindictive girl and her gullible mother. I’m told it took all of one hour to clear Jasmine.” She sat back, steepling her fingers and bringing them to her lips much like Gwen had seen Jack do. “But the Court was uneasy. The family situation seemed odd. So they sent her to me.”

            “And…” Jack prompted.

            “There’s something odd, alright. Her father died three years ago. Her mother is remarrying and pregnant. Spends all her time in her own world and sometimes Jasmine is an afterthought. Her stepfather-to-be is a bit of a lad, very unlike Jasmine’s father, who was a respected musician and teacher. They moved out of the only home she has known and in with the stepfather. Her whole world is rearranging itself and she has no say in it. Jasmine should be miserably unhappy, but she seems almost relieved. She actually likes her stepfather in a sort of superior way.” She sighed. “I should be happy she seems so well adjusted, but there’s something here, Jack. Something isn’t right.”

            “It sounds like…” Gwen stopped and started again. “Do you know if she’s fond of spending time in a particular place? Woods, rivers, the sea shore?”

            “Oh, you’ve got a clever one here, Jack. You’re an Old Believer, aren’t you, Gwen? I can call you Gwen, can I? Yes. She does. There’s a small forest near her house, one of those places nobody ever builds on for some reason. She spends most of her free time there. She says she studies and draws, has even brought me some of her work…” She reached for a folder on the table. “Here.”

            There were about a half-dozen drawings in it. Gwen spread them out on the table. They were extremely well done; if she had been asked before she knew anything about the artist, she would have pegged him or her as an adult with very well defined sensibilities. She studied them a little longer.

            “Do you see it, Gwen?”

            “Yes.” She pointed at several spots in the drawings. “These spaces… it’s almost as if there’s supposed to be someone there. Is that it?”

            “Very clever indeed. Exactly.” Estelle sat back. “She’s spending time with someone or something in those woods. And it wouldn’t be the first time a girl’s emotions were manipulated until she’s past all help.” She turned to Gwen. “Can I ask you a question? Why did you immediately assume that it wasn’t a natural situation? Most people would have thought of sexual abuse.”

            “My mother had a cousin. Beautiful, talented, a little odd. She went to her undine lover when she was fifteen. When you were talking about Jasmine, I had this clear image of her.”

            “You have a touch of the precognitive about you, Gwen. Keep watch. It can be very dangerous.”

            Gwen nodded, swallowing hard. Her teachers had concentrated on developing her mediumistic abilities, but she knew they had always worried – not in her presence – about that wild talent of hers.

            “We’ll look into it, Estelle,” Jack stood up. “Next Friday?” At her nod, he kissed her cheek again. “I’ll bring the champagne.”

            As they got back into the SUV, Gwen ventured to ask Jack a question. ‘So, how long have you known Estelle?”

            “Since the sixties. You know, summer of love, strawberry fields, Georgy girl.” He gave her a sideways glance. “Surprised or shocked?”

            “Neither, really. Just a few weeks on the job and I’ve had all my preconceptions kicked out of me. But it surprises me she knows about you.”

            He shrugged. “She figured it out and asked. Estelle has this… acceptance about her. If she knows you and likes you, very few things would drive her away.”

            The SUV’s comm pinged. “Jack?”

            “Yes, Ianto?”

            “Kathy says feel free to drop by. I got the impression she really wanted to talk to you about Jasmine.”

            “Will do, thanks.”

            “Kathy?” Gwen asked.

            “Kathy Swanson. Senior Investigator for Dark Arts for the Episcopal Court.”