Mrs. Divs pushes open her door. “Come on in, now. You, too, Niles.”
Of course Mrs. Divs knows him. She knows everyone in the building. Probably keeps mental files of our birth dates, Record IDs, and what we last ate for breakfast.
The name suits him. Maybe it’s the bangs. They slope.
He has to be recent, I don’t remember him moving in. Or the woman who stuck up for Dad, come to that.
Niles meets my assessment and winks. Again.
Something’s up.
Mrs. Divs lives in spotless lace. White webs cover her lone window, the rickety side tables, and the back of her couch. Even the wall-screen with its muted newscast is lace strewn. Her furniture matches, carved legs and floral cushions worn but cared for. Must have cost a mint at one time.
A big green jar gleams on the closest side table. Yonni moved us here when I was twelve, and while most of the world has shrunk as I’ve grown, Mrs. Divs’s cookie jar remains fat as ever.
She catches me looking. “Go on, then. Get Niles one, too. I’ll make tea.”
She taps off into the kitchen. I pounce on the jar. Remove the lid with slow care and sniff. Sugar, lots of sugar, dried whitepips, and . . . pacanuts? I reach in and pull out a frosted star. Bright teal. She even dyed the dough to match. The teals are best.
I offer it to Niles.
He shakes his head. “Not a fan of cookies.”
“In general, or hers specifically?”
He drops onto the couch. “General. Too crunchy.”
“These aren’t.” I toss him the cookie and get my own—a pink moon so deep it’s almost red.
Niles commands the couch with an elbow thrown over the back and legs askew. A crumpled mess of limbs and hair. Mrs. Divs’s furniture was once pricey, but she hasn’t much of it. Seating consists of the couch.
Niles must catch on, because he folds himself up against one corner. Back straight, legs crossed. Demure, even. Until he tosses out that half-there smile and pats the cushion next to him.
“What was yesterday about?” I ask.
He shrugs, unfazed. “Looked like you could use a hand.”
I didn’t. I was fine.
“Were you watching me?” I ask.
He gives me a long, slow once-over, until I can’t fight the blood in my cheeks. “What if I was?”
And I gave this guy a cookie.
“Gawking at the murderer’s daughter?”
It’s his turn to blush, the carpet suddenly fascinating. “No.”
Whatever.
I lean against the door and watch the screen. Pristine newscasters mouth silent opinions before cutting to Lady Galton in all her blonde ringlet glory. She’s the only person I’ve ever seen, on-screen or off-, who can wear ruffles and still project power. That lace hides teeth. The captions reiterate what she’s been saying since the Lord’s death. It’s fine, we’re all fine, the Prime assures her he’s doing his best to find the next House Heir—despite his continued lack of success. As the head of the Enactors, the Prime has endless resources at his disposal, so there must be excellent reasons as to why he hasn’t found the Heir already—but regardless we can rest assured our Acting Lady, as our late Lord’s beloved wife, will see our House safely through this terrible crisis.
Of course she will.
Niles eyes me from the couch. “You know, I don’t bite.”
“So I’ve noticed.” I glance at the cookie he hasn’t touched. Such a waste of sugar.
He grins and tosses the cookie back to me. Perfect trajectory, I barely have to move to catch it.
“All yours,” he says.
Mrs. Divs returns, balancing a tray. Niles hops up and takes it from her, laying the tray on the low central table.
She beams and sits on one end of the couch, tugging the tray closer. The steam from the teapot dances.
“Don’t you be glaring at us from on high, girl,” Mrs. Divs says. “Sit.”
Niles grins. With Mrs. Divs in the corner, whenever I sit he’ll be right beside me. Lucky him, I’m sweaty as hell. And grimy. And probably bleeding everywhere.
Oh hell.
I lift a foot—which really aches, thinking about it—to find red-brown streaks smeared deep in the rug. It’s a nice rug, with flowers and swirls. Probably the only rug in the building worth not getting blood on.
So, of course, I walk all over it.
My breath stops. Cuts out. Smothered by the mountain in my chest that rises like a flightwing and cracks every thought into one.
They should have just mapped me. Or the power tech should have taken the day off.
My legs shake and I’ll be on my knees bleeding on the carpet if I don’t calm down.
Breathe, Kit. Come on, breathe.
“Kit,” warns Mrs. Divs, “I don’t see you sitting.”
Air rushes in and I gasp.
“You okay?” Niles is at my elbow, not reaching or touching, scanning me over. “Wow, your feet are—”
“Fine,” I snap, turning to Mrs. Divs. “I’ve ruined your rug. I’ll fix it.”
Just don’t ask me how.