"Mold doesn't wait for convenient scheduling."
We shadow-travel back. I deposit her outside the kitchen and materialize in my office. Collapse into my chair just as my knees give out. Perfect timing.
Through the walls, I hear her voice. Shaky now. Playing the part.
"—very scary. Very threatening. I understand completely now." A pause. The clink of bowls. She drops something. "Sorry. Still a bit— Anyway, lunch will be simple. Just soup."
Good. She gets it. My reputation stays intact while she does whatever it is she does.
Joss appears in my doorway. Studies me.
"Productive meeting?"
"Shut up."
"She's implementing a cleaning rotation."
"I said shut up."
"Just thought you should know." She vanishes again.
A cleaning rotation. In my compound. For my assassins.
I need to update those charts. Add a new column: "Days Since Complete Operational Breakdown."
Current count: Zero.
Tomorrow she'll bring vegetables and I'll pretend this is sustainable. That she hasn't fundamentally compromised everything I built. That my shadows didn't refuse to hurt her.
That I don't want them to.
Bodies to dispose of. A guild to terrorize into submission.
But first, apparently, I need breakfast.
The broth is still on my desk. Still perfect temperature somehow. I drink it and taste defeat.
It's delicious.
Chapter 10
The bruises on my throat have turned interesting colors. Purple-green with yellow edges, like fruit left too long in the bowl. Mrs. Wickershaft keeps trying not to stare while she pokes through my paint jars.
"This blue is very... bold." She unscrews a lid, sniffs.
"Storm-blue. Two days of mixing to get it right." I pull my scarf higher. The silk one that won't stay put. "Goes with the disappointed clouds painting. See how they're slumping?"
She glances at the landscape. "The clouds look rather dejected."
"Well, yes. It's been that kind of week for everyone." I reach past her to straighten my brush display. Twenty-four new ones this batch, all different sizes. The lamb's wool came out especially soft. "Mr. Grivven saves the best fleece for me. Spring lambs. Much better than store brushes—those feel like painting with broom bristles."
She picks up a medium-sized brush, tests it against her palm. Sets it down. Picks up another jar—my special ochre that took forever to get right.
"I'll think about it," she says.
She doesn't buy anything.
Fair enough. Not my best work—painted at dawn after sleeping maybe two hours, thinking about whether someone ate breakfast. The clouds do look dejected. Everything I paint lately looks dejected.
