“Mothers and daughters. They’re either best angel friends or hell’s demons incarnate, and there’s nothing in between.” Max repeated Kellen’s maxim back to her.

“Rae’s never been one to let something fester,” Verona said. “She’ll come to you sooner or later, Kellen.”

Max reached for Kellen’s uninjured hand and squeezed it.

Kellen understood why. Verona had been a stand-in mother for Rae; now she was gracefully stepping aside.

On the porch, a middle-aged woman stood waiting.

“That’s Ruby’s home nurse, Tichi Barlow,” Max said.

Tichi waved them toward her, and when they were close enough, she called, “Come in. Miss Morgade is waiting.”

They joined her, entered the house…

It was so weird, coming in to silence. Everything was exactly as it had been. So much had happened here, yet they’d left no mark.

Tichi said, “Miss Morgade was so excited you were coming today, she got up early, bathed and got dressed, came down to the porch to wait—and collapsed. We carried her upstairs to her bedroom. She’s waiting for you there.”

Kellen ran toward the stairs, paused and turned back to Verona and Max. Max waved her on—he was grinning, which confused her—and she took the steps two at a time, all the way to the top.

The attic room looked as it had before: window seat, desk, paintings, bookshelves. But the door between it and the inner attic was open.

Kellen paused before she entered, to catch her breath, to prepare to meet her angel, and heard—

A bark.

She took two running steps inside.

A bed.

Rae.

An old woman.

And Luna, standing on the mattress, her backside wrapped in gauze, her tail wagging wildly, while Rae and Ruby restrained her from jumping at Kellen.

“Mommy, Ruby says Luna’s not supposed to jump off the bed. Did you know she got hurt?” Rae sounded bewildered and aggrieved.

“I knew. Yes, I did. I was so afraid…” Kellen rushed to the bed, knelt beside it, put her arms around the ecstatic Luna—and burst into tears.

51

While Kellen sobbed, Luna kissed her, cuddled with her, whined in worry and nudged her bandaged hand.

Rae protested, “Don’t cry!” and wrapped her arms around Kellen and Luna.

In her soft, creaky voice, Ruby said, “I know, dear. I know.”

It was a soft, sentimental, mushy pile of feminine distress.

Kellen looked up, her eyes blurred with tears.

RUBY MORGADE:

FEMALE, 97YO. ONCE TALLER, NOW LESS THAN 5', 100 LBS? THIN, WHITE HAIR TWISTED INTO A BUN. OSTEOPOROSIS. ARTHRITIC HANDS. HER EYES, ONCE BEAUTIFULLY ALERT, DROOPED WITH AGE, BUT HER SKIN REMAINED A GOLDEN BROWN HONORED WITH THE CREASES BESTOWED BY GREAT AGE. HAD BEEN, AND REMAINED, A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN.