Walsh-Whiteley jabbed at the air with his fork. “Maudlin nonsense.
There’s no room at Lethe for delicate sensibilities. This is why the Ninth House is no place for women.”
Inside the kitchen a loud crash sounded as Dawes made her feelings known.
“Are you up to attending tonight’s wolf run?” the Praetor asked Darlington.
“Certainly.”
“I think you’ll be pleased with the way our Miss Stern has progressed.
Despite her dubious background and lack of education, she’s acquitted herself well. I can only assume as the result of your tutelage.”
“Naturally.”
Alex resisted the urge to kick him under the table.
When Walsh-Whiteley had finished the last bite of his crostata, and downed the last sip of his Sauternes, Alex walked him to the door.
“Good luck tonight, Miss Stern,” he said, cheeks rosy from the wine.
“I’ll expect your report by Sunday at the latest.”
“Of course.”
He paused on the steps. “You must be relieved Mr. Arlington has returned.”
“Very relieved.”
“It’s fortunate that Hayman Pérez was able to manage such a complicated spell.”
“Very fortunate.”
“Of course Mr. Pérez has been searching for lost Nazi bunkers in the Antarctic for the better part of a year. A pointless endeavor, I suspect, but he got the funding, so I suppose the board must see a purpose. He’s been quite unreachable.”
Alex wasn’t sure if the Praetor had really caught them out or if he was bluffing. “Has he? I guess we got lucky.”
“Very,” said the Praetor. He tucked his cap onto his head. “Lethe sees me as a nuisance and a pedant. It has ever been so. But I hold the Ninth House to a higher standard than those who make a pretense of governing it. I believe in the institution that Lethe might be, that it should be. We are the shepherds.”
His gaze found hers, his eyes a rheumy indeterminate brown. “There are places we were never meant to trespass, no matter that we may have the means. Be careful out there, Miss Stern.”
Before Alex could think of a reply, he was walking down the street, whistling a tune she didn’t recognize.
Alex watched him go, wondering at who Raymond Walsh-Whiteley really was. A young genius. A reactionary curmudgeon. A student still in love with the boy he’d met on some seaside idyll, the boy he still mourned.
Alex shut the door, grateful to be behind the wards. Dawes was in the dining room with her blueprints and her notes, walking Darlington through what to expect from the descent. Alex was happy to leave them to it. She didn’t want to think of Darlington as he’d been last night in front of the fire.
A predilection for first editions and women who like to lecture me aboutmyself. A joke. Nothing more. But that word kept sticking in her thoughts—
predilection, precise and filthy at the same time.
She headed straight for the Dante bedroom. She had work to do.
“Baby!” her mother exclaimed when she picked up the phone, and Alex felt that familiar rush of happiness and embarrassment that always came with her mother’s voice. “How are you? Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s great. I was thinking about coming home for Thanksgiving.”
Mercy and Lauren were planning a trip to Montreal with a couple of theater people Lauren had met working at the Dramat. They’d invited Alex, but Alex wasn’t swimming in cash, and if she made it through the second descent and everything it entailed, she was going to use what money she did have for a trip to Los Angeles.
A long pause. Alex could imagine Mira pacing in their old living room, fear descending over her. “You’re sure? I’d love to see you, but I want to make sure this is a healthy step forward for you.”
“It’s okay. I’d just come to see you for a few days.”
“Really? That would be perfect! I’ve found a new healer and I think she could do wonders for you. She’s great at purging negative energy.”
How about demons? “Sure. That sounds nice.”
Another pause. “You’re sure everything is okay?”
Alex should have protested the healer more.
“I really am. I love you and I’m excited to see you and … Okay, I’m not excited to eat tofurkey, but I can pretend.”
Mira’s laugh was so easy, so light. “You’re going to love it, Galaxy. I’ll have your room all ready.”
They said their goodbyes, and Alex sat looking at the window, at the stained glass moon glowing in a bank of blue glass clouds, never waxing, never waning. When she was small, she’d searched her mother’s features for some hint of herself and found nothing. Only once they’d been sitting side by side on the bed, barefooted, and she’d noticed that they had the same feet, the second toe longer than the big toe, the pinky crowded in like an afterthought.
It had reassured her. She belonged to this person. They were made of the same stuff. But it wasn’t enough. Where was the shared sense of humor? A talent like sewing or singing or picking up languages?
