fit over the mess—and I caught sight of our domestic, Mattie, peeking from the utility room where the washer chugged quietly. Mattie’s cheeks were wet with tears, too. It would upset her to see Mom so zoned.
Oh, Christ have mercy. It was something Mom used to say when a cake fell or Father sprang a six-person dinner on her at four thirty on a Friday afternoon. I almost said it, too; caught myself just in time.
Father was dead. There would be no slap or sucker punch for blasphemy. But Irv was giving me a Significant Look, taking me in from neatly braided hair to bare knees over the tops of my socks and under my plaid skirt—I hadn’t even changed out of Camp uniform yet.
“Mom.” I dropped the duffel, made it into the kitchen, and got my arms around her when she started to moan. Irv mumbled something or other and beat a hobbling retreat to the parlor, and I met Mattie’s wide dark gaze again. She made a hurried motion, and I realized she was crossing herself.
That could get her derezzed, sent back over the border in a hurry with her indenture yanked. I hurriedly looked away. Mom swayed and hiccoughed. I swallowed hard and wondered just what Irv was up to.
* * *
The Myrmidons showed up that evening. Mom was in bed, the sedatives blurring her out, and Irv had left to go sleep at the seminary Father had been underdean at. He couldn’t stay at the house even with Mattie there. Even if he was making brotherwife noises.
God, that thought just made me go cold all over.
Anyway, Mattie came into Mom’s room, wide-eyed and pasty under her copper-toned skin. “ Inquisitores ,” she whispered, grabbing my arm and digging her work-roughened fingers in.
I appreciated the warning. My head filled up with rushing pulse-noise, I made it down the stairs and plodded across the hall into the parlor. It was still dust-free and shiny everywhere, the spines of books Father never read—because he’d bought them glued together by the yard from the designer—still frowning at the overstuffed couches and the doilies.
Mom used to crochet before Father made them change her meds.
Anyway, they were Myrmidons. Two nice young clean-shaven guys, hair short and fingernails buffed, in matching dark suits and wine-red ties. Squeaky-polished wingtip shoes reflecting the lamplight. The bay window looking out on the front yard held only darkness; I could barely see the streetlamp and the two black electro SUVs parked beside the still-spindly redwood tree and the mercilessly trimmed laurel hedge.
“Julia Kingstree? I’m Agent Harker; this is Agent Brown.” The fractionally taller one flashed his double-cross badge as he rose. “We’re sorry to intrude—”
“My mom’s upstairs. She’s sleeping.” I grabbed the doorframe. It wouldn’t do any good—they had tasebolt guns, I could see the shoulder holsters peeping out. But the smaller one—Brown—was sitting, staring at the bookshelves like he was perplexed.
I could maybe run, couldn’t I? I’d probably make it out onto the street before they caught me. Then it would be stuffed into the vans and off to derezzing. Unless I was going to be Rechristened.
“We’re sorry to intrude at a time like this,” he continued smoothly. “You’re not in any trouble, Miss Kingstree. Please, sit down.”
I stayed right where I was. Not in trouble? That’ll be the day.
The smaller one had a round face, and he looked a little softer. His wire-rimmed glasses flashed as he turned his head a little, looking at me. “She just came from Mount Temple, Hark. I don’t think she believes you.”
“Well, I did Temple too. Didn’t do me any harm.” Harker flashed me a wide white smile. “Really, Miss Kingstree. We’re just here to ask some questions.”
That’s how it always starts. I made my fingers unclench. But I stayed where I was, watching them, until Brown sighed.
“Harker, show a little class. Miss Kingstree, we’re here to ask about Robert Maguire. You were the last
Oh, Christ have mercy. It was something Mom used to say when a cake fell or Father sprang a six-person dinner on her at four thirty on a Friday afternoon. I almost said it, too; caught myself just in time.
Father was dead. There would be no slap or sucker punch for blasphemy. But Irv was giving me a Significant Look, taking me in from neatly braided hair to bare knees over the tops of my socks and under my plaid skirt—I hadn’t even changed out of Camp uniform yet.
“Mom.” I dropped the duffel, made it into the kitchen, and got my arms around her when she started to moan. Irv mumbled something or other and beat a hobbling retreat to the parlor, and I met Mattie’s wide dark gaze again. She made a hurried motion, and I realized she was crossing herself.
That could get her derezzed, sent back over the border in a hurry with her indenture yanked. I hurriedly looked away. Mom swayed and hiccoughed. I swallowed hard and wondered just what Irv was up to.
* * *
The Myrmidons showed up that evening. Mom was in bed, the sedatives blurring her out, and Irv had left to go sleep at the seminary Father had been underdean at. He couldn’t stay at the house even with Mattie there. Even if he was making brotherwife noises.
God, that thought just made me go cold all over.
Anyway, Mattie came into Mom’s room, wide-eyed and pasty under her copper-toned skin. “ Inquisitores ,” she whispered, grabbing my arm and digging her work-roughened fingers in.
I appreciated the warning. My head filled up with rushing pulse-noise, I made it down the stairs and plodded across the hall into the parlor. It was still dust-free and shiny everywhere, the spines of books Father never read—because he’d bought them glued together by the yard from the designer—still frowning at the overstuffed couches and the doilies.
Mom used to crochet before Father made them change her meds.
Anyway, they were Myrmidons. Two nice young clean-shaven guys, hair short and fingernails buffed, in matching dark suits and wine-red ties. Squeaky-polished wingtip shoes reflecting the lamplight. The bay window looking out on the front yard held only darkness; I could barely see the streetlamp and the two black electro SUVs parked beside the still-spindly redwood tree and the mercilessly trimmed laurel hedge.
“Julia Kingstree? I’m Agent Harker; this is Agent Brown.” The fractionally taller one flashed his double-cross badge as he rose. “We’re sorry to intrude—”
“My mom’s upstairs. She’s sleeping.” I grabbed the doorframe. It wouldn’t do any good—they had tasebolt guns, I could see the shoulder holsters peeping out. But the smaller one—Brown—was sitting, staring at the bookshelves like he was perplexed.
I could maybe run, couldn’t I? I’d probably make it out onto the street before they caught me. Then it would be stuffed into the vans and off to derezzing. Unless I was going to be Rechristened.
“We’re sorry to intrude at a time like this,” he continued smoothly. “You’re not in any trouble, Miss Kingstree. Please, sit down.”
I stayed right where I was. Not in trouble? That’ll be the day.
The smaller one had a round face, and he looked a little softer. His wire-rimmed glasses flashed as he turned his head a little, looking at me. “She just came from Mount Temple, Hark. I don’t think she believes you.”
“Well, I did Temple too. Didn’t do me any harm.” Harker flashed me a wide white smile. “Really, Miss Kingstree. We’re just here to ask some questions.”
That’s how it always starts. I made my fingers unclench. But I stayed where I was, watching them, until Brown sighed.
“Harker, show a little class. Miss Kingstree, we’re here to ask about Robert Maguire. You were the last
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