“Imelda,” Helen said, turning to the woman Jamal was afraid to leave behind. “I would very much love it if you would accept the hospitality of our house. You will not be imprisoned here; you are free to leave should you decide the house is too loud or too hectic. Choice in these things will always be yours. But I would value and appreciate your company, should you care to accept our offer.”

Mrs. Erickson’s smile was gentle and almost beatific. She held out one hand; Helen took it carefully. “I would. I would love to live here.”

“I want to see her rooms,” Jamal said. “I want to see where she’ll be staying first.”

“You’re adding conditions after the fact,” Kaylin told him. “That’s poor sportsmanship.”

“Jamal, be reasonable,” Mrs. Erickson added, in the tone of a woman who has no hope whatsoever that her request will be granted.

He ignored her, focusing on Kaylin. “Who cares about sports?”

Helen, however, smiled. “You may see her rooms, if it will comfort you. She cares very much for you, and she does not want you to worry in any way.”

“It’s all right?” Mrs. Erickson asked, with a trace of anxiety.

“Of course it is. They will be your rooms, and Jamal has always been part of your home.” Helen then turned and led Mrs. Erickson to the foyer, to the wide staircase, and up it, to the second floor. She turned down the hall in which all of the tenants—except one—had their rooms. Those rooms were adorned by silhouettes that spoke to or about the inhabitants.

Kaylin noted the new door down the hall; it was beside her own room. On it was something that looked suspiciously like the basket in which Mrs. Erickson put the baking she brought to the Halls of Law. Kaylin wondered if baking would still be done, still be brought in, when she no longer had the children to entertain; she wouldn’t need stories of her daily life to bring back to them.

“This is your room,” Helen told Mrs. Erickson. “I am always present; if you call me, I will answer. Kaylin’s is next door, if you feel calling me will cause discomfort.”

Mrs. Erickson nodded, and then reached out for the door’s handle. She opened the door slowly. “This...isn’t a room,” she whispered. Kaylin looked over her shoulder; she could see grass and wildflowers, a blend of white and green and violet.

“It is one of my rooms, Imelda. Just beyond the field—you can see it from here—is where you would be living should you choose to stay.”

Kaylin did not expect tears, but Mrs. Erickson shed them, as if unaware that they were falling. She turned to Helen. “You knew?”

“No. Not until you opened the door.”