“It’s not a trick question,” Liv says, as though she’s reading my mind. She turns her computer screen so that I can see the display. Her cursor blinks next to a data box that reads, ‘Total # Users Group B.’ I can see she has already filled in the ‘Total # Users Group A’ box with the number 187.

“There are only one hundred and eighty-seven Flame-fingers in the world?” I ask. That doesn’t seem like a lot.

“Well, only one member of each guérriseur family is counted as having the gift. Bran and Siaka are the only Flame-fingers in France...that we know of. And outside of France, Bran’s been able to track down a hundred and eighty-five. There’s probably a lot more. They didn’t really stay in touch over the years.”

Liv has said more words in the last minute than she has the whole time I’ve known her. “You know a lot about the Flame-fingers.”

She looks up from the monitor. “My family has been Flame-fingers ever since we can remember. My mother’s actually the oldest daughter, so my grandmother should have given it to her. But Mom didn’t want it, and her sister, Siaka’s mom, did. That’s why he has the gift now, and not me. So yes, I know a lot about Flame-fingers. It’s my history. It’s my birthright.” She rolls her eyes. “Like I care.”

Something tells me the nonchalance is an act. She does care. No wonder she has so much attitude with Siaka.

“Does Siaka know how you feel?” I ask.

“We’ve talked about it. I mean, it’s kind of a moot point. Look at me. Can you imagine me as a guérriseur? I’d rather hack someone than heal them, any day.” Her lips do that tiniest of upturns once again, which I suspect is the closest she ever gets to a smile. “So how many bardia?” She moves her curser on the database.

I peer at my screen, click into the homepage, and say, “It looks like there are around five thousand listed worldwide. The number varies depending on which listing I’m in. I haven’t had time to figure it all out.”

“Close enough,” she says, typing again. “And in France?”

I click through on the map. “Around forty-five in Paris, and a couple hundred in the rest of the country. Again, that’s approximate.”

She enters the information, and then switches over to a blank page on her screen with lines of raw code. She starts typing into the middle of it. I look back at my laptop and read through the database pages one by one, trying to familiarize myself. But I’m too distracted to really let it sink in. All I can think about is that the girl sitting next to me is a veritable font of information about the boy I’m crushing on.