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Noble’s—wait, this is T’Blackthorn Residence!” His expression clouded, and his voice held a note she hadn’t heard in a long time. Sadness, despair. Trouble.
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All Mitchella’s maternal instincts rose as she studied Antenn. She wanted to pull the boy to her, but he’d sneered a few months ago that he was too big for that anymore. “You know T’Blackthorn Residence?”
    His lips compressed—old gang secrecy? Then he shook his head, stopped the holostone, and tossed it to a mat on her desk. “We ran there. The Triad,” he spoke jerkily. “Got a girl. Turned out to be T’Ash’s girl.” He smiled humorlessly and looked far older than his twelve years. “T’Ash got her back. We all ended up at T’Blackthorn’s. Guess that’s where T’Ash hid when he was a kid on the streets. There were a couple of fights.”
    Mitchella knew the story now. How could she have forgotten? She was Danith’s best friend, and though it had been a long time, the events would always live in everyone’s memory.
    She raised a hand for him to stop, but Antenn was staring at a painting ahead of him on the wall, chin quivering. She knew he didn’t see the art, but the past. His fingers trembled as he petted Pinky. Pinky rumbled a purr, turned over onto his back to have his stomach rubbed, paws curled. That brought a faint smile to Antenn’s lips, and Mitchella was glad. Neither Antenn nor she needed to recall the deaths of the Triad, one of whom was Antenn’s brother.
    Gritting her teeth she added another reason other than Straif Blackthorn that this job would be trouble. But she had no choice. And the Residence was so beautiful. Running a hand through her own hair, she chose her words carefully. “If I could, I’d reconsider the commission, but I need the job. A FirstFamilies GrandLord’s Residence.”
    Antenn turned his head and smiled sweetly at her, and her heart contracted. She loved the boy, he was closer than any of her nephews, like her own son. She swallowed, then smiled back. Someday that sweet smile of his would win a woman.
    Carefully, he lifted Pinky, stood, and placed the cat on the worn blue velvet nap of the twoseat. Antenn took the two steps to her desk and looked down at a two-dimensional drawing of T’Blackthorn Residence. With his forefinger he traced the lovely lines of the house. “Nice place. It will make your reputation.” He grinned, but it wasn’t as carefree as the one he’d walked in with. “It doesn’t look anything like that now, or didn’t a couple of years ago, and it could only have gotten worse. You’re gonna work your tail off.”
    She wished he hadn’t said that. Before she could respond, he patted her on the shoulder. “I have some grove-study to do.”
    That was a first.
    He whistled to Pinky. The cat grunted, rolled off the sofa to land lightly on his paws, and agreed to follow him.
    They both left the den, and it was a lot lonelier. Antenn didn’t pound up the narrow stairs, and that was worse.
    She rubbed her temples, glanced at a holo of T’Blackthorn Residence, and recalled the hip-shot stance of the very virile Straif Blackthorn. Oh, yes, this job was going to be trouble.
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In the low light, Straif trod to the far end of the corridor in the east wing to a small parlor, too dim in both light and his own recollection to harbor memories. He banished the dust from the carpet and furnishings with a tiny spell that used the last of his energy, then he set up his bedroll and Drina’s pillow on a divan. He undressed, carefully set his whittling tools on a table. He hadn’t wanted anything from the house when he’d left except his travel pack, but the set of tools a G’Uncle had given him had been in the pack. It had taken him a couple of years, though, before he could use them.
    Straif still didn’t want