Then again, as Tohr had said on the trip out here, Wellsie had been as much John’s as anyone else’s.
“I sent Qhuinn back, by the way. Figured this is an extenuating circumstance—and I gotchu.”
John nodded. As much as he loved his friend, it felt right for him and Tohr to be in the house together alone, even if just for a few moments.
How’d it go at Safe Place? he signed.
“Really well. Marissa was—” Tohr cleared his throat. “You know, she’s just a lovely female.”
She totally is.
“She was really happy about the donations.”
You give her the rubies?
“Yeah.”
John nodded again. He and Tohr had gone through what little was in Wellsie’s jewelry collection. That necklace, bracelet, and earrings had been the only things with any intrinsic value. The rest was more personaclass="underline" little charms, a couple pairs of hoops, a set of tiny diamond studs. They were going to keep all that.
“I meant what I said, John. I want you to use the furniture if you want. The art, too.”
There’s a Picasso in there I really like, actually.
“It’s yours, then. All of it, any of it, is yours.”
Ours.
Tohr inclined his head. “That’s right. Ours.”
John walked around the living room again, his footsteps echoing up and around. What made you decide tonight was the night, he signed.
“It wasn’t any one thing. More like a culmination of a lot of stuff.”
John had to admit he was glad for that answer. The idea that this might have somehow been solely tied to Autumn would have made him angry—even though that would have been unfair to her.
People moved on. It was healthy.
And maybe that lingering anger was a sign that he needed to let go a little more as well.
I’m sorry I wasn’t better about Autumn.
“Oh, no, it’s okay, son. I know it’s tough.”
Are you going to mate her?
“No.”
John’s brows jumped. Why not.
“It’s complicated—actually, no. It’s pretty simple. I blew up the relationship the night before last. There’s no going back.”
Oh… shit.
“Yeah.” Tohr shook his head and looked around. “Yeah…”
The pair of them just stood there side by side, their eyes tracing the mess they had created out of the order that had once been. The state of the house was now, John supposed, rather like where their lives had been after Wellsie had been killed: blown apart, hollow, everything in wrong places.
It was more accurate than what had been before, though. False order, preserved out of a refusal to move on, was a dangerous kind of lie.
You’re really going to sell the property? he signed.
“Yeah. Fritz is calling the Realtor as soon as the business day gets rolling. Unless… well, if you and Xhex want it, it goes without saying—”
No, I agree with you. Time to let it go.
“Listen, I want to see if you can take the next couple of nights off? There’s a lot still to do here, and I like having you with me.”
Of course. I wouldn’t miss this for anything.
“Good. That’s good.”
The two of them stared at each other. I guess it’s time to go.
Tohr nodded slowly. “Yeah, son. It really is.”
Without another word, the pair of them stepped out of the front door, locked up… and dematerialized back to the mansion.
As his molecules scattered, John felt like there should have been some kind of proclamation or exchange between them that was momentous, some conversational flag in the sand, a grave, milestone-y recitation of… something.
Then again, he supposed the healing process, in contrast to trauma, was gentle and slow…
The soft closing of a door, rather than a slam.
SIXTY-SEVEN
Several nights after Autumn arrived at Xhex’s cabin, a towel changed everything.
It was just a white hand towel, fresh from the dryer, destined to be rehung in the aboveground bathroom and used by either one of them. Nothing special. Nothing that Autumn hadn’t handled either at the Brotherhood mansion or up in the Sanctuary over the course of decades and decades and decades.
But that was the point.
As she held it in her hands, feeling the warmth and the soft nap, she began to think of all the laundry she had done. And the trays of food she had delivered to the Chosen. And the bedding platforms she had made. And the stacks of johnnies and scrubs and towels…
Years and years of maid service that she had been proud to do…
You’ve been making a martyr out of yourself for centuries.
“I have not.” She refolded the towel. And unfolded it again.
As her hands made work for themselves, Tohr’s angry voice refused to yield. In fact, it got even louder in her head as she went out and saw the floors gleaming from her hand-polishing, and the windows sparkling, and the kitchen neat as a pin.
That symphath was your fault. I’m your fault. The weight of the world is all your fault—
“Stop it!” she hissed, clamping her hands on her ears. “Just stop it!”
Alas, the desire to become deaf was thwarted. As she limped around the small house, she was trapped not by the confines of the roof and walls, but by Tohrment’s voice.
The trouble was, no matter where she went or what she looked at, there was something she had scrubbed or straightened or buffed right in front of her. And her plans for the night had included more of the same, even though there was no demonstrable need for any more cleaning.
Eventually, she forced herself to sit down in one of the two chairs that faced the river. Extending her leg, she looked down at the calf that had not looked right or worked right for such a very long time.
You enjoy being the victim—you’re all about it.
Three nights, she thought. It had taken her three nights to move into this place and slip right into the role of maid—
Actually, no, she had started in as soon as she had woken up after that first sunset.
Sitting by herself, she breathed in the lemon-scented fragrance of furniture polish and felt an overwhelming need to get up, find a rag, and start wiping tabletops and counters. Which was part of her pattern, wasn’t it.
With a curse, she forced herself to stay seated as a replay of that horrid conversation with Tohrment churned through her brain again and again.…
Immediately after he had left, she had been in shock. Next had come great waves of anger.
Tonight, however, she actually heard his words. And considering she was surrounded by evidence of her behavior, it was hard to dispute what he had said.
He was right. Cruel though the expression of the truth had been, Tohrment was right.
Although she had couched it all in terms of service to others, her “duties” had been less of a penance, more of a punishment. Every time she had cleaned up after others, or bowed her head under that hood, or shuffled off to stay unnoticed, there had been a satisfying lick of pain in her heart, a little cut that would heal nearly as quickly as it was inflicted.…
Ten thousand slices, over too many years to count.
In fact, none of the Chosen had ever told her to clean up after them. Nor had the Scribe Virgin. She had done it herself, casting her own existence in the mold of worthless servant, bowing and scraping over millennia.
And all because of…