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  Enid was still angry as she passed judgment. But she was satisfied.

  //////////////////////////////////////////////////

  A storm was coming up. The clouds on the horizon were slate gray, tinged with green. They gave Enid a sick feeling in her stomach because they reminded her of the ones from a decade ago, of the storm that she and Dak had been caught in, and the one that had destroyed Potter before that. She had to stave off the sense of panic, that she needed to get to shelter right now.

  She had time. A day at least. She would get back to Serenity before the storm hit, and all would be well.

  At the way station at Tigerlily, she stopped to trade news and to deliver the first of many copies of her report on Pasadan. The place was bustling; they’d also seen the clouds building and thought the storm looked like a big one, so they were preparing. Shoring up structures, covering windows, gathering supplies, taking care of folk caught traveling who needed a place to shelter.

  Enid wanted to take the solar car all the way to Haven to speed up her trip. She made sure no one else needed it more, and no one did. Besides, once the clouds moved in and the vehicle’s battery ran low, the thing wouldn’t be much good anyway. It would stay safe, parked in Haven.

  She talked about the case to a couple of messengers and the head of the way station. She wasn’t really in the mood for it, but she needed to do it, to start word moving. The responses were either aghast or enthralled. Maybe a little of both.

  “So it really was a murder?” the head of the way station asked, more than once.

  “I think in the old days, they would have called it manslaughter. Maybe wrongful death,” she said.

  “Dead’s still dead, and what a wretched situation,” a messenger from the south muttered, and Enid agreed. Before the Fall, they had the time and energy for semantics and fine gradations of meaning. She passed along a couple of copies of her initial report, which would be copied and passed along in turn, until all the regional committees knew what had happened.

  “I’m very sorry about Tomas,” the head of the way station said. “I liked him.”

  Enid smiled a thanks and gritted her teeth. She was going to be facing those condolences, and offering them, a lot over the next couple of days. Made the wound hurt more, not less. She wanted to be home.

  The drive back to Haven gave her plenty of time to mull over questions. Decide if she’d learned anything, or if the town had learned anything. If anyone had learned anything about what had gone wrong and what they could do better.

  Banners were a scarce resource. People fought over scarce resources. But they’d already known that, hadn’t they? Would anything have kept Kirk from thinking Sero was about to steal something from him? Or would he have thought that in any case? If Kirk hadn’t been so possessive of Miran, would he have staked a claim on something else? Sero’s auger, maybe? It was all just . . . exhausting.

  Part of her never wanted to arrive back at Haven at all, because then she’d have to tell everyone about Tomas. She didn’t have a satisfying reason or explanation for his death. He just died, as people do. Too soon, too young.

  And there, she started crying again.

  She had it all planned out. She was going to drive the car straight to Plenty, call as many people as she could get into the common room there, hand over Tomas’s staff and belongings, and lay it all out as quickly and straight as she could. Offer what small comfort she could, then bow herself out and flee to Serenity. Hope Sam was there. If he wasn’t, she would make a cup of strong tea and wait for him.

  It was a good plan, a solid plan for which she could brace and shore up her emotional reserves. Be the dispassionate investigator for just a little longer. But before she could get to Plenty, she met Olive, coming up the road with her basket on her arm. Probably back from trading bread for eggs at one of the other houses. She was looking good, color back in her cheeks, energy in her stride. She felt good enough to go out, which she hadn’t a week ago. Already, the world looked better.

  “Olive!” Enid called, and parked and spilled out to greet her friend. Olive laughed and gave her a one-armed hug, taking care of the basket.

  “You’re back; it’s so good to see you!” she gushed. Then she glanced over at the car and asked with total innocence, “Where’s Tomas?”

  Well, that finished her off, didn’t it? Enid folded, right there in the middle of the road.

  Olive sat with her for what seemed a long time while Enid just sobbed, and Enid worried about the image—investigators weren’t supposed to lose it like this; she had fully intended on taking off the uniform first, or at least getting out of public. But Olive kept saying things would be all right until Enid could at least pretend to believe her.

  “Want me to go to Plenty with you?” Olive asked gently.

  “No, I can do it. I have to do it, tell them what happened . . .”

  Olive frowned. “Maybe you could come home first and get cleaned up. It can wait another hour, yeah?”

  Enid thought a moment, then nodded. Some of the pain fell out of her, just having someone she trusted to lean on. She let Olive help her up, and they took the car to Serenity.

  And Sam was there, right at the front of the cottage. He saw her and smiled. She stopped the car, nearly falling out of it to get to him faster. If he was surprised at the fervor with which she threw herself at him, well, he didn’t seem to mind.

  “I missed you,” he murmured in her hair, holding her close, then squeezing even tighter when she leaned into him. She needed him, needed this.

  “You have no idea how much I missed you,” she murmured back. Straightened, took his face in her hands. “I love you so much.”

  He kissed her, then said, “That bad, huh?” He looked over her shoulder to see Olive coming up, arms close in, her expression drawn.

  “It was bad.” She had to tell him about Tomas. But maybe not right this minute.

  “You all right?”

  She had to think a minute. “I will be.”

  “I love you too, Enid.”

  “How’re things here? With the storm?”

  “Orchard’s called for help harvesting apples before the wind knocks ’em all down. You up for it?”

  The task sounded clear, simple, and productive. It was perfect. “A job. Oh, yes, I’d love to. But let me change clothes first.”

  “Come on, then,” he said, grabbing her hand, and they jogged inside as the wind picked up.

  Acknowledgments

  As always, no book is an island, and I had help. My thanks to Seth Fishman and John Joseph Adams for taking a chance on me. To Daniel Abraham for reading the first rough—very rough—draft. To my Monday-night dinner crew—Wendy, Anne, Max, and Yaz—for getting me through some rough patches. And to my longtime readers for sticking with me. Thank you all.

  About the Author

  CARRIE VAUGHN is the best-selling author of the Kitty Norville series, as well as several other novels, including Dreams of the Golden Age, Voices of Dragons, and Discord’s Apple. Her Hugo Award–nominated short fiction has appeared in many magazines and anthologies. She lives in Colorado with a fluffy attack dog.

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