“I saw the message he sent,” he continued a little quieter. “We’re working on tracking it back. Oscar Gray is a personal friend of mine. I am helping find your brother as a personal favor. You won’t owe my House anything.”
“There are always debts,” I said.
“True,” he said. “Some debts are worth getting into, don’t you think?”
“Do you have any idea how long it will be before you find something?”
“If we don’t have it cracked before the gathering, I’ll hang up my hat and hand the House over to my cousin.”
“Which one?” Dotty asked, sliding pie down for him, herself, and an extra, then sitting at the table. “Libra?”
“Yes.”
“You are a terrible man, Welton,” she said as she scooped up a bite of pie.
“Come on, now,” he protested. “She has a set of morals. More or less. And her utter love of chaos would make things a little less . . . boring.” He grinned at me, and I got the impression he was always on the lookout for things that would keep his life interesting.
“As for settling any debt between us, personally,” he said. “I’d like to ask you a few questions. Is it true you have sensation of touch?”
“Yes.”
Abraham had walked over to Foster and offered him a mug with what looked like marshmallows floating on top of it. I caught a whiff of rich chocolate. He was giving Foster hot cocoa.
Foster took the mug and his mouth hooked up into a smile. “Thank you, Abraham.”
His voice was gravel down a canyon, but his smile contained a humanity I had glimpsed only briefly in him.
“I am curious about the thread that’s holding you together,” Welton said around a bite of pie. “And most everything else about how you came to be.”
Abraham smiled and shook his head. “I thought you wanted to lose some money.” He crossed over to the table. “Not grill Matilda on private matters.”
“Are these details you don’t want to share?” Welton asked.
“No, it’s fine. Truth is, I don’t know much about the thread. I think my father invented it.”
“May I?” he asked, wiping his fingers on his pants then holding out his hand to touch the stitches across my left wrist.
I hesitated. Then put my hand in his.
He gently drew his finger across my stitches and a shiver of goose bumps rippled up my arm.
“Amazing work,” he said. “Do you know who made you?”
Here it was, the question of where I’d come from. I’d told Oscar, but I didn’t know if he’d told Welton.
If I lied, would it put my claim to House Gray in danger? If I told him Quinten had stitched me together and saved my life, would it put my brother in more danger than he might already be in?
“I don’t really know.”
Welton tipped his head to one side. “You don’t remember?”
“I was young.”
“When you were stitched?”
I nodded.
“That’s . . . unusual. Very unusual,” he said. “There is another thing I’d like to know. Abraham tells me when you touch him, his sense of touch is restored.”
