had been nice, but none of it had been his. And the house was fine, if you liked museums and stage sets that were designed to impress. But he couldn’t say that there had been many other benefits.
Cursing, he left the set of rooms and went out to the kitchen. As he entered, the doggen who were busy preparing Last Meal stopped everything they were doing, each one of them freezing in mid-chop, mid-stir, mid-mix.
That was when the sadness hit him. He had known these wonderful, loyal males and females all of his life. Some had been hired by his mahmen. A couple had been inherited from his grandparents. And they were staring at him in a combination of panic and mourning.
“It’s all right.” He smiled at them in turn. “It’s all going to be fine. He’s going to have to keep you on, so nothing will change for you.”
Thomat, the chef, lowered his blade. “May we prepare something for you, my Lord.”
My Lord. The nomenclature that referred to the head male of the house.
“Thomat, it’s not like that.” Boone walked forward and stopped opposite the doggen, the counter that separated them a metaphor for their different stations. “But I thank you for the honor. You have been . . . all of you have been so wonderful to me.”
“This is your house, my Lord.” Thomat shook his head. “No one else’s. Now, it would be our pleasure to serve you.”
“I’m not even a guest here. I’ve been ordered by the King to stay under this roof for the next thirteen nights. So I will serve myself.”
When he offered his palm as a measure of respect, the doggen stared at it. Then Thomat stepped back from his side of the counter . . . and bowed so low, his toque nearly brushed the lamb he’d been trimming.
As Boone looked around, he noticed several other members of the staff had come in. And every single doggen was bowing to him as well.
Closing his eyes, he wanted to tell them they were going to have to move on. But he didn’t have the strength. Still, he was surprised by how touched he was by the show of loyalty and respect.
It warmed the heart, it truly did.
* * *
Helania passed the night hours cleaning everything she could get her hands on. She started with her bed and her towels, stripping everything and filling her washing machine with a big load. Then she hit the bathroom with the Scrubbing Bubbles, getting down on her hands and knees and all but rubbing through the layers of tile to the frame of the building. Next on the elbow grease docket was her kitchen. She emptied out her refrigerator, took the shelves to the sink, and sponged them with soap and hot water until they gleamed. She also handwashed the floor, the fronts of the cabinets, and all the drawers.
She even took out the tray the silverware was in and vacuumed what was underneath. When that didn’t go far enough, she put the forks and the knives and the spoons on the counter and wiped out the tray itself.
In the sitting area, she pulled the duvet cover off the sofa. Threw that in the wash. She vacuumed the rug and then went around and reorganized her needlepoint pillow supplies. When she got out the step stool and Swiffer’d a cobweb from the corner up at the ceiling, she was ashamed of how long it had been since she had really paid attention to the place.
It had been well before Isobel had passed.
Had been killed, she corrected herself. As she had Boone. Sometime around dawn, she ran out of steam. Sitting on the bare sofa and listening to the dryer do its business on the duvet, she fought against emotions that were just below the surface.
Isobel would know how to handle this, she thought as she put her hand on her flat stomach.
If her sister were alive . . . Isobel would know what to do. About the possibility of pregnancy. About the situation with Boone. About these tears that seemed determined to break through her self-control.
“Why did you have to go?” she said hoarsely.
The instant the words left her, her eyes shot to the cloak she wore to hide herself at Pyre. And it was then that anger simmered as she realized she should have been out looking for her sister’s killer.
Who had not been found yet.
Helania looked around at her sparkling-clean apartment. One night of losing