Zatanna looks out the window, expression unreadable.
“What?” I ask.
She glances at me. “I was just thinking your childhood must have been either very glamorous or deeply cursed.”
A real laugh almost gets out of me. “Both.”
That earns the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth.
The front doors open before we reach them. One of the staff steps back at once, trained enough not to ask questions. We walk in.
The foyer is double-height, all stone floors and dark wood and a staircase that splits at the landing. A chandelier hangs overhead, old and severe, something my grandmother chose before taste in this house became subordinate to practicality. To the left is the formal sitting room no one uses. To the right, the library where my father used to pretend newspapers mattered more than people.
Straight ahead, my mother is already waiting. She should be resting.
Instead, she stands in the hallway in a pale cashmere robe, one hand lightly braced against the table behind her. She looks better than she did in the hospital only because the house light is kinder. Not because she is well.
She is still too pale. Still too thin. Still recovering.
The moment she sees Zatanna, something in her face softens, even through the tiredness. Then her eyes come to me, and I know immediately she understands more than she says.
“Zatanna,” she says first.
Zatanna blinks, clearly caught off guard. “Hi Daria.”
My mother smiles faintly. “You look like you need food and sleep. Possibly in that order.”
Zatanna glances at me as if to confirm this is a normal greeting in my family.
It is not. Which probably reassures her not at all.
Then my mother’s attention shifts back to me. “You brought her here.” Not a question.
“Yes.”
“And she is staying.”
“Yes.”
My mother studies my face for one long second, then nods once, as if some private conclusion has just been confirmed.
“Good,” she says.
That surprises me. It must surprise Zatanna too, because I hear her let out the smallest breath beside me.
My mother turns to one of the staff. “Prepare the east suite.”
Of course she picks that one. Quiet, private, overlooking the garden instead of the street.
Zatanna starts to protest. “I don’t want to inconvenience anyone?—”
“You were attacked,” my mother says mildly. “You can inconvenience the upholstery for a few days.”
That shuts her up.
I look at my mother and see it clearly then. The pallor, yes. The exhaustion around her eyes. But also, the steel. Still there, even now.
Her gaze slides once over Zatanna’s belly, then back to my face.
