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something more substantial, there’re sandwich makings or cold pasta salad.”
    “I’m good.” He watched her as she added a few crackers, a handful of cubed cheese to the snack plate. “There’s no need to get pissy.”
    She cocked that brow at him. “Why would I be pissy?”
    “Exactly.”
    Taking one of the apple slices, she leaned back against the counter, and took a tiny bite. “You’re misreading me. I came down because I wanted tea, not because I was annoyed with you. Annoyance wasn’t what I felt. You probably won’t like what I was feeling, what I do feel.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Sorry that it used your personal grief against you.”
    “I don’t have any personal grief.”
    “Oh, shut up.” She took another, and this time angry, bite out of the apple. “That is annoying. You were in the cemetery. As I sincerely doubt you go there for nature walks, I have to conclude you went to visit your mother’s grave. And Twisse defiled—or tried to—your memory of her. Don’t tell me you don’t have grief for the loss of your mother. I lost my father years ago, too. And he chose to leave me, chose to put a bullet in his brain, and still I have grief. You didn’t want to talk about it, so I gave you your privacy, then you follow me down here and tell me I’m pissy.”
    “Which is obviously off,” he said dryly, “as you’re not in the least pissy.”
    “I wasn’t,” she muttered. She let out a breath, then nibbled on the apple again as the kettle began to sputter. “You said she looked very young. How young?”
    “Early twenties, I guess. Most of my impressions of her, physically, are from photographs. I . . . Shit. Shit.” He dug out his wallet, pulled a small picture from under his driver’s license. “This, this is the way she looked, down to the goddamn dress.”
    After turning off the burner, Cybil moved to him, stood side-by-side to study the photo in his hand. Her hair was dark and loose, her body slim in the yellow sundress. The little boy was about a year, a year and a half, Cybil judged, and propped on her hip as both of them laughed into the camera.
    “She was lovely. You favor her.”
    “He took this out of my head. You were right about that. I haven’t looked at this in . . . I don’t know, a few years maybe. But it’s my clearest memory of her because . . .”
    “Because it’s the one you carry with you.” Now Cybil laid her hand on his arm. “Be annoyed if that’s how you have to handle it, but I’m so sorry.”
    “I knew it wasn’t her. It only took a minute for me to know it wasn’t her.”
    And in that minute, she thought, he must have felt unbearable grief and joy. She turned back to pour the water into the pot. “I hope you hit a couple of vital organs, if organs it has, when you punched it.”
    “That’s what I like about you, that healthy taste for violence.” He slipped the picture of his mother back into his wallet.
    “I’m a fan of the physical, in a lot of areas. It’s interesting, isn’t it, that in this guise, its first push was to try to convince you to leave. Not to attack, not even to taunt as it has before, but to use a trusted form to tell you to go, to save yourself. I think we have it worried.”
    “Yeah, it looked really concerned when it knocked me on my ass.”
    “Got up again, didn’t you?” She arranged the plate, the pot, a cup on a tray. “Cal should be here in another hour, and Fox and Layla shortly after. Unless you’ve got a better offer, why don’t you stay for dinner?”
    “Are you cooking?”
    “That is, apparently, my lot in this strange life we’re leading at the moment.”
    “I’ll take that offer.”
    “Fine. Carry this up for me, and we’ll put you to work in the meantime.”
    “I don’t make charts.”
    She shot him that smug look over her shoulder as she started out ahead of him. “You do today if you want to eat.”
     
    LATER, GAGE SAT ON THE FRONT STEPS, ENJOYING the first beer of the evening