“That got everything under control. Her mother privately asked me to tell her what happened. I refused and asked that she not ask Tamalyn, either. I told her my background in therapy and said I’d be glad to assist when I could.” Rune coughed. “She seemed more impressed when she thought I was a psychic.”

Adam gave a crack of laughter. “Therapist or psychic, which is worse?”

“I know. What was I thinking?” Rune’s fluting voice grew wry.

“I’m thinking you’re doing very well,” Elle told her. “Tamalyn called and apologized to me.”

“Did she really?” Rune got anxious. “Did her mother make her?”

“Her mother knew nothing,” Elle assured her.

“That must have been a hard call to make and shows real contrition and more maturity than most adults I know.” Elle heard a bell tinkle, and Rune was suddenly brisk. “Now I’m back at the shop, the Shivering Sherlocks just walked in, and this is going to be lucrative. Talk to you later!” She cut the connection.

“Another day, another crisis, and one that’s ended well for all.” Adam wiped fake sweat off his forehead.

In a burst of affection, Elle hugged his arm. “You are a nice man. Now, how long do you think until the next crisis arises?”

He pulled back in dismay. “Good God, woman, don’t challenge fate.”

“Sorry! You’re right.” She rested her head on his shoulder and said wistfully, “I really would enjoy a few days of peace so we can rest and recover.”

“Me, too.” He had never meant anything so much.

The following four days were everything Adam could have wished. The weather was perfect. The horizon remained clear. The sense of being watched had vanished. No bullets flew, and no one fell down the stairs. He and Elle had conversations about what foods they liked, discussed metallurgy and how Adam created his armor and weaponry, and discovered they both liked reading suspense novels while rocking in the porch swing.

They did not have conversations about their pasts—because she didn’t remember one more single darned thing and Adam refused to discuss any time earlier than his arrival in Gothic, especially not the deep, inner meaning of his art. In fact, he told her there was no deep, inner meaning.

What he couldn’t figure out, what didn’t make sense to him was how she managed to wear clothes that always looked as if she was naked underneath? He knew Angelica had brought Elle bras and panties: the first few days, he’d washed them. Then she’d taken over her laundry. He also knew that the panties Angelica had brought Elle covered her butt. At least, he’d seen no evidence of a thong.