“Honest. Old Coulumbite tradition there. Mom’s side of the family, and her people go back to this soil. It’s a strange world we live in.”

She nodded, though that might have been a bump in the downhill road.

*   *   *

Tara woke beneath a too-familiar ceiling. Pale yellow metal beams supported white panels overhead; a metronome ticked her heartbeat and a needle pen scraped the sound’s shape onto a palimpsest. She sat up and swore at the pain in her skull, then swore again when she saw the man reading a magazine in the chair across from her bed.

The metronome popped prestissimo as she forced herself to her feet, arm still fabric-cuffed to the heart monitor. Her hospital gown billowed, and stitches pulled in her side. She drew her knife by reflex; the speed of its departure grayed her vision.

Not that there was anything objectionable, on first glance, about the man in the chair, reading a copy of this month’s De Moda. He was lean and strong, a pleasant topology of muscles evident beneath white shirt and charcoal slacks. Good chin. Very green eyes. Emerald, almost.

“What?” Shale said, half-risen. “What’s wrong?”

She caught her breath and guided her nightmares of claws and teeth and chains back to the prisons where they lived in daylight. Her knife faded into the glyphs that ringed her hands and webbed her arm. “Nothing,” she said. “I haven’t seen you looking human in a long time.”

He glanced down at himself, confused. “Did I get it wrong?” The features looked different draped over his skull.

“No. I mean, the wardrobe’s a bit missionary.”

“That’s the point.”

“The last time we talked like this was after I cut off your face and stapled it to a mannequin.”

“I remember,” he said without humor.

“So, we survived.”

“Nobody’s more surprised than I am.”

“I did what I could,” she said. “There were too many.”

“Is this how Craftswomen say thank you?”

“We don’t, as a rule. But, thank you. I remember the ambulance. Before that it’s blurry, except for … the fire. Damn. So he did it.”

“Kos aided us.”

“He shouldn’t have. I need to get to the sanctum. Where in the nine hells are my clothes?”

“Shredded. Unless you want to pass for a cover model on a planetary romance, I think they’re a lost cause. Try these.” He pointed with the rolled-up magazine to a garment bag on the chair beside him, which bore the crossed-keys logo of Adelaide & Stears. “I guessed your size. Hope I wasn’t too far off.”

She snatched the bag and closed the curtains around her bed with a wave. As she untied the back of her gown, she heard him say, “You’re welcome.”

*   *   *