Grace realized what she was talking about. Not pastries in a tote bag. “I hope this is your last TDY for a while, Sergeant Major. And that it goes smoothly with no delays.” That should be clear enough to Morrison. She saw by the glint in Morrison’s eyes that it was. “Do you get winter leave like everyone else, I hope?”
“Not usually,” Morrison said. “I’ve usually got a round of bases to visit—this year I’m scheduled for Dorland and Fulland. It’ll be all day giving holiday greetings to troops at one base after another, with short-haul flights between. I take leave the week after. It is a bit of a nuisance having this TDY so close to that, but—” She shrugged and grinned. “It’s my job. My career. And I like it.”
“And you’re good at it,” Grace said. “I’m fine now; I’ll see you to the door.” Morrison put the cylinder in the tote with the pastries, picked up her briefcase from the living room, and they shook hands at the door. Grace felt a small datastick in her palm and used that hand on the door handle when she opened it.
“Thank you, Rector, for the pastries,” Morrison said; the guard outside stared at the opposite wall, but he had ears. “They’ll be a good snack on the trip, and a treat for whoever picks me up when I arrive.”
“Safe travels,” Grace said, then closed and locked the door.
The datastick, inserted into a machine that wasn’t connected to anything else, gave her the whole plan, answered the questions she had wanted to ask. She thought of calling the Vatta house—but she hadn’t yet, and that call might alert someone who should not be alerted. Stella? She could call Stella, but if Stella didn’t have the same information, it would make her resent being left out. Besides, though she called Stella, and Stella visited regularly, she didn’t call Stella at this time of day. That might tip someone off, especially if someone reported on Morrison’s visit.
Mac arrived late, as usual; she’d half expected he would not arrive at all, would be gone on the same mission—no names had been given, just the plan’s outline. “Anything interesting today?” Grace asked.
“Some. Hungry?”
“You know I eat early. The sergeant major stopped by, as usual. Didn’t stay long.”
“Ah. I’m hungry. Let’s go in the kitchen.”
In the passage he leaned to murmur in her ear. “They’re off. The last of them moved out earlier tonight. So far no tickles from the other side.”
“Good,” Grace said, turning into the kitchen. “Then you can have the last cattlelope steak for dinner.”
“With pleasure,” Mac said.
Stella Vatta unlocked the front door of the house and checked the security indicators—though with people in the house, it wasn’t really necessary. The right lights blinked in the right order. She turned around and waved at her driver before stepping inside and closing the door. She was glad to be home and out of the snow. No one was visible in the living room, but it was possible, now that her citizenship was at least nominally restored, that Ky had gone out on some errand in preparation for the coming rescue attempt. She glanced around and saw a piece of paper on the floor in front of the staircase. Ky’s handwriting, firm and clear as always.
“Stay home. Find a reason to take a day off.”
Take a day off? She couldn’t take a day off; she had a business to run. She had left work at the office; she had put some on the transfer tray to work on here at home after supper, but not everything could be done remotely. She needed to be seen at Vatta headquarters. And no explanation. Typical of Ky, she thought, more and more annoyed.
She listened. No sound from the kitchen. No sounds upstairs. Surely someone was home; Ky had said the three fugitives would likely stay behind. She hurried up the stairs, calling for one after another. No one answered. The guest rooms were all empty, bathrooms clean, beds made, freshly vacuumed and dusted. Closets empty, drawers… no sign of recent occupation. Where had they put the clothes bought for them? Where was Ky’s box sent down from her ship?
She checked the rest of the upstairs. Only her suite and her father’s office showed signs of use. Downstairs again, past the first floor, to the basement level. Doors that had been open since the others arrived were now locked; she opened them. Everything as clean and empty as above.
The whole house was empty but for her. Empty. Not even a guard on duty—anything could have happened before she arrived from work. She felt the first stirring of anger. When had Ky left? How long had the house been empty, unguarded? And they had secure links from this house to her office at headquarters; Ky could have told her. Then she remembered what Ky had told her—no communication, no warning. But that wasn’t supposed to be now—tomorrow, maybe. If she’d known, she’d have sent someone to—her thoughts tangled a moment. If she had sent a Vatta security detachment to the house, someone might have noticed. Probably would have noticed. Quindlans, or the government… but surely they’d also noticed the others leaving. She went into the kitchen. Another note lay on the table, this one from Allie. “Dinner in the warming oven, covered.”
She left it there and went back upstairs to change into something more comfortable. The house was so quiet, too quiet. She had become used to the bustle of the others, even while telling herself she resented it. She stripped off her business suit and hung it in the ’fresher. She was about to take a knit top from her dresser drawer when she remembered she was alone in the house.
Ky had said she should wear body armor; Rafe had agreed. They had looked up the best weapons shop in the city, before they left for Corleigh, and nagged until Stella ordered a set that combined both impact protection and a chameleon function. But she hadn’t worn it yet. Wearing it was an admission that she was not safe, that all her security measures might not be enough. She’d experienced a personal attack on Cascadia but… this was home. This was her childhood home, where she had always been—always felt—safe. She knew every centimeter of it, including those secret places even Ky didn’t know. Even the attack in the driveway hadn’t persuaded her.
She looked at the nondescript gray undershirt with its discreet buttons on the cuffs to control the chameleon function, its hood that folded down into a low turtleneck. It had cost an incredible amount for something so plain, so… ugly. She hadn’t even been able to buy it in a color that suited her. She touched it, then shook her head.
Nothing was going to happen tonight. Whatever happened would happen where they were. And yet—if she didn’t wear it and something did happen here, she would never hear the end of it. If she lived. Her thoughts veered back and forth.
Finally, with a sigh, she pulled out the shirt and put it on. Lightweight, surprisingly soft, neither warm nor chill. She left the rest of the outfit in the drawer: the long pants, the gloves, the booties that could fit over her footwear. Sensible caution was one thing, but giving in to paranoia was another.
She pulled on a pair of green wool slacks, tucking the shirt in, then one of her favorite sweaters over it. She looked in the mirror—no sign of the armor, of course. Her shoulder holster lay on the bed, another unwelcome reminder of danger. She put the harness on again, though it ruined the look of the sweater, and a short house wrap over it. Checked the pistol automatically, though she had checked it before leaving for home. Fully loaded. Spare magazine in the drawer of the bedside table, two boxes of ammunition in the cabinet below, along with her night-vision goggles and a wicked-looking knife she refused to consider, no matter what Rafe said.
Downstairs, the usual lights were on in the usual rooms, all the shielding still on as it should have been. She selected her favorite music, a string quartet playing a concerto from two centuries before that Ky had always called boring. If she had to be in the house alone, she’d play what she pleased. She took her dinner out of the warming oven and decided to take it up to the upstairs office.