Proven Guilty by Jim Butcher Page A

a moment she froze, staring at Molly. She opened her mouth for a second, words hesitating on her tongue. Then her eyes shifted to me and surprise fell to recognition, which was followed by a melange of anger, worry, and fear. She clutched her kimono a little more tightly to her, her mouth working for a second more, then said, “Excuse me for a moment.”
    She vanished and reappeared a moment later, sans little Harry, this time covered in a long terrycloth bathrobe, her feet inside fuzzy slippers.
    “Molly,” she said quietly, and came down the stairs.
    The girl averted her eyes. “Mother.”
    “And the wizard,” she said, her mouth hardening into a line. “Of course he’s here.” She titled her head to one side, her expression hardening further. “Is this who you’ve been with, Molly?”
    The air pressure in the room quadrupled, and Molly’s face darkened from pink to scarlet. “So what if it is?” she demanded, defiance making the words ring. “That’s no business of yours.”
    I opened my mouth to assure Charity that I had nothing to do with anything (not that it would actually alter the nature of the conversation), but Michael glanced at me and shook his head. I zipped my lips and awaited developments.
    “Wrong,” Charity said, her stance belligerent and unyielding. “You are a child and I am your mother. It is precisely my business.”
    “But it’s my life” Molly replied.
    “Which you clearly lack the discipline and intelligence to manage.”
    “Here we go again,” Molly said. “Go go gadget control freak.”
    “Do not take that tone of voice with me, young lady.”
    “Young lady,” Molly singsonged back in a nasal impersonation of her mother’s voice, her fists now on her hips. “What’s the point? Stupid of me to think that you might actually be willing to talk with me instead of telling me how to live every second of my life.”
    “I fail to see the error in that when you clearly have no idea what you’re doing, young lady. Look at you. You look like… like a savage.”
    My mouth went off on reflex. “Ah, yes, a savage. Of the famous Chro-motonsorial Cahokian Goth tribe.”
    Michael winced.
    The look Charity turned on me could have withered the life from small animals and turned potted flowers black. “Excuse me, Mister Dresden,” she said, words clipped. “I do not recall speaking to you.”
    “Beg pardon,” I said, and gave her my sweetest smile. “Don’t mind me. Just thinking out loud.”
    Molly turned to glare at me, too, but hers was a pale imitation of her mother’s. “I do not need you to defend me.”
    Charity’s attention shifted back to her daughter. “You will not speak to an adult in that tone of voice so long as you are in this house, young lady.”
    “Not a problem,” Molly shot back, and then she whirled on her heel and opened the door.
    Michael put his hand out, not with any particular effort, and the door slammed shut again with a sharp, booming impact.
    Sudden silence fell over the Carpenter household. Both Molly and Charity stared at Michael with expressions of utter shock.
    Michael took a deep breath and then said, “Ladies. I try not to involve myself in these discussions. But obviously your conversation this evening is unlikely to resolve the differences you’ve had.” He looked at them in turn, and his voice, while still gentle, became something more immovable than a mountain’s bones. “I don’t have any feeling that my trip will be an extended one,” he said, “but we never know what He has planned for us. Or how much time is left to any of us. This house has been upset long enough. The strife is hurting everyone. Find a way to resolve your troubles before I return.”
    “But…” Molly began.
    “Molly,” Michael said, his tone of voice inexorable. “She is your mother. She deserves your respect and courtesy. You will give them to her for the length of a conversation.”
    Molly set her jaw, but looked away from her father. He stared