a level tone. Most people probably wouldn’t have noticed the undertone of anger and pain in her voice, or the almost imperceptible pause between each word. I could see bricks being mortared into place behind her eyes and I looked away from her.
The room was completely silent, until Morgan said, in a small and broken voice, “What?”
I looked up at him. His hard sour face had gone gray. His expression was twisted up in shock and surprise, like that of a small child discovering the painful consequences of gravity for the first time.
“Ana,” he said, almost choking on the words. “You . . . you think that I . . . How could you think that I would . . . ?”
He turned his face away. It couldn’t have been a tear. Not from Morgan. He wouldn’t shed tears if he had to execute his own mother.
But for a fraction of a second, something shone on one of his cheeks.
Anastasia rose and walked over to Morgan. She knelt down by him and put her hand on his head. “Donald,” she said gently, “we’ve been betrayed by those we trusted before. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“That was them,” he said unsteadily, not looking up. “This is me.”
She stroked his hair once. “I never thought you had done it of your own free will, Donald,” she whispered quietly. “I thought someone had gotten into your mind. Held a hostage against your cooperation. Something.”
“Who could they have held hostage?” Morgan said in a bitter voice. “There’s no one. For that very reason. And you know it.”
She sighed and closed her eyes.
“You knew his wards,” Morgan went on. “You’ve been through them before. Often. You opened them in under a second when you came in. You have a key to his apartment.”
She said nothing.
His voice turned heavy and hollow. “You’re involved. With Dresden.”
Anastasia blinked her eyes several times. “Donald,” she began.
He looked up at her, his eyes empty of tears or pain or anything but weariness. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t you dare.”
She met his eyes. I’d never seen such gentle pain on her face. “You’re running a fever. Donald, please. You should be in bed.”
He laid his head on the rug and closed his eyes. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Donald—”
“It doesn’t matter,” he repeated dully.
Anastasia started crying in silence. She stayed next to Morgan, stroking her hand over his mottled silver-and-brown hair.
An hour later, Morgan was unconscious in bed again. Molly was down in the lab, pretending to work on potions with the trapdoor closed. I was sitting in the same spot with an empty can of Coke.
Anastasia came out of the bedroom and shut the door silently behind her. Then she leaned back against it. “When I saw him,” she said, “I thought he had come here to hurt you. That he had learned about the two of us and wanted to hurt you.”
“You,” I asked, “and Morgan?”
She was quiet for a moment before she said, “I never allowed it to happen. It wasn’t fair to him.”
“But he wanted it anyway,” I said.
She nodded.
“Hell’s bells,” I sighed.
She folded her arms over her stomach, never looking up. “Was it any different with your apprentice, Harry?”
Molly hadn’t always been the grasshopper she was today. When I’d first begun teaching her, she’d assumed that I would be teaching her all sorts of things that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with her being naked. And that had been more than all right with her.
Just not with me.
“Not much,” I acknowledged. “But he hasn’t been your apprentice for a long, long time.”
“I have always been of the opinion that romantic involvement was a vulnerability I could not afford. Not in my position.”
“Not always,” I said, “apparently.”
She exhaled slowly. “It was a much easier opinion to hold in my previous body. It was older. Less prone to . . .”
“Life?” I suggested.
She shrugged. “Desire. Loneliness. Joy. Pain.”
“Life,” I said.
“Perhaps.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “When I was young, I reveled in love, Harry. In passion. In discovery and in new experiences and in life.” She gestured down at herself. “I never realized how much of it I had forgotten until Corpsetaker left me like this.” She opened her pained eyes and looked at me. “I didn’t realize how much I missed it until you reminded me. And by then, Morgan wasn’t . . . He was like I had been. Detached.”
“In other words,” I said, “he’d made himself more like you. Patterned himself