A hum went across the dais, as Board members turnedto mutter to one another. “And his mother would be raising him?”
“Not necessarily,” I said, keeping my voice level, though I wanted to shout with the joy of almost-triumph. “Rutherford Talmadge IV and John Pengelly have applied for custody. The paperwork is only waiting on your approval.”
Flora looked up at Ruthie, relief stark on her face. “You would be taking care of him?”
Ruthie nodded, swallowing hard.
Flora stood, her knees only a little wobbly. “Could—could I come visit, from time to time?”
Ruthie smiled even as tears sprang to his eyes. “I would like that.”
Flora spun on her heel to glare at the Board. “As his mother, I support Mr. Talmadge’s custody petition.”
“As does his father,” said Hugh Renois, rising to his feet in the audience.
“Any opposition?” The Chair looked at the audience and then to his fellow Board members, who performed a series of shrugs, scowls, and shakings of the head. “Very well. Custodial petition is approved.”
Four parental faces lit up with separate flavors of relief.
“And the memory-book?”
The Chair waved a hand. “Yes, yes, Miss Gentleman, you’ve made your point. He shall have full rights to memorystorage and reembodiment. After all,” he said, with a glance around the dais, “do we want to be known as the Board who killed the first new human child for three hundred years?”
Clearly this line of logic was a new one, as many Board members’ eyes went wide to hear it. Even the member with the mustache looked a bit cowed as he considered how such a decision would look to next year’s voters.
Ah, democracy.
“Any other questions?” the Chair demanded, and banged the gavel when no one spoke up. “Then let us convene the Crime Committee, and consider this hearing complete.”
The room immediately buzzed with sound as everyone began talking at once. Gaskill and Baxenden led Norris away to be placed under house arrest—and possible guard, considering the man’s way with a lock—and Anne ran forward to embrace Flora.
Ruthie removed the skimmer and gathered his son up into his arms.
I moved forward, buoyant with success. “So it seems now I’m a great-aunt,” I said, ruffling my fingers through Peregrine’s silk-soft curls.
“You’ve always been great to me,” Ruthie replied.
I winced. “Good heavens, I’m far too sober for that kind of punnery. Shame on you, Rutherford.” I gave the infant one more pat. “You’re going to have to start setting a better example from now on.”
For the first time since this whole escapade started, Ruthie looked down at Peregrine with alarm—not for the baby, but for himself. “Oh no, do you think so?”
I laughed. “Don’t worry,” I said, glancing to where John had formed a little group with Flora and Anne and Hugh. “You’ll have plenty of help.”
THE NEWS WENTout all over the public channels, and I spent the rest of the day in the Bureau answering official queries and putting out statements and even, flatteringly, giving a brief interview to a journalist whose questions were almost embarrassingly complimentary.
And then the triumph ebbed and there was only me, alone. Quiet and drained and a little restless, as I always found myself at the end of a case.
Naturally, I ended up at Violet St. Owen’s yarn shop.
I’d deliberately left it late, so this time it was I who approached her with the golden solar sunset all around me in the ten minutes before she was scheduled to close. “I’ve brought a pattern for you,” I said. “To thank you for your help.”
And I set the skimmer plans down on the glass counter.
Not without a qualm or two, mind. It wasn’t every dayI broke the law, and my constitution was threatening to rebel. I had to wipe my damp palms against my trouser legs as Violet unrolled the schematics and raised an interested eyebrow. “Are these the ones Norris Godfrey altered?” she asked.
“They are,” I said.
Her eyes met mine, shrewd and surprised in equal measure. “Are you supposed to be giving these to ordinary passengers?”
