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pummeled his pillow into an acceptable shape. Pinky trotted up from the end of the bed to lie on his own pillow, beside Antenn’s. It was unsanitary, had always been unsanitary, but how did you explain that to a boy who’d lived in the slums? And companionship was so much more important.
    â€œSo I’ll deal with my fears and my past,” he said.
    Mitchella’s smile widened. He’d said that as if he’d had twenty years of criminal activity behind him. She smacked a kiss on his brow. He turned red and wriggled. “Good night.”
    â€œGood night.” She rose and went to the door. “Night-light!” she ordered, and a small glowing ball of light hovered in the far corner of the bedroom.
    â€œMitchella?” asked Antenn as he scooted back under his covers.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œT’Blackthorn Residence isn’t really cursed, is it?”
    â€œAbsolutely not.”
    â€œGood,” he said.
    She closed the door softly behind herself and walked down the short hallway to her own bedroom. The Residence wasn’t cursed, the Blackthorns had never had bitter enough enemies to do that. No, if anything was cursed, it was the Family, poor souls.
    As she slid into her own bed she thought of her own abundant family. They could be unbearable at times, but she loved them. How hideous to know that every few generations a common Celtan virus could sweep through your Family and kill you all. Just because the gene that had mutated in most Celtans to protect them from the illness was faulty in you and your Family.
    She shivered. Life on Celta continued to be hard. She’d suffered Macha’s disease as a child, and it had left her sterile. Though life spans were longer, people didn’t flourish on Celta like they had on Earth—except the Clovers.
    But it wouldn’t do to pity T’Blackthorn. Not only would he loathe such a feeling from her, but it could lead her into softer emotions that he could exploit. He was not a man to be pitied. He was a FirstFamily GrandLord with a HeartMate, and she shouldn’t forget that. She could envy him the power, wealth, and love that he’d have in his life.
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Straif’s nose itched. He rubbed it. The tickling came again. He shook his head, but couldn’t escape the sensation. Finally, he opened his eyes—to a looming cat brushing her whiskers under his nose. A surprised cry caught in his throat. “Aarrrgh,” he croaked.
    Drina smiled beatifically. Time to eat. Minced clucker for breakfast would be good.
    Straif would prefer eggs, but he’d have to find the kitchen, first. He wondered if there were any prepared breakfasts in the no-time food storage. Grimacing at the thought of scavenging on his own in his decaying home, he decided that he might have been hasty in leaving the Hollys. He did like his breakfast.
    He sat up and stretched as he looked around the room. The walls of the small parlor were covered in deep purple fabric with traces of curlicued gold. Straif winced. If those lines still gleamed after all this time, it must be real gold, and he’d neglected it. Getting the value out of that wallpaper would probably be futile. Cleaning it would probably cost more than it was worth. He grit his teeth. More evidence of his lack of care and attention for his home.
    Drina set her forepaws in his thighs and extended her claws to prick through his travel blanket. Food!
    Well, the cat had her priorities straight.
    â€œRight,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Residence?”
    â€œYes,” it answered immediately, and Straif sensed it had only been waiting to be addressed.
    â€œAre there any breakfast meals in the no-time?”
    â€œNo.”
    Straif frowned. He’d need a cook, but how could he ask anyone else to live and work in such a shambles? He stood, picked up his traveling blanket and snapped the dust from it, folded it, and pulled on his trous.
    Drina sat regally,