I kind of understood, though.

“Nothing hinky either,” Tattletale said. “I told you it was fine.”

“Maybe you’re fine if you’re the one calling, but why is she picking up the phone?”

“She didn’t. I called a nonexistent number and your tinker patched me through. Blame her for keeping an eye on the airwaves.”

I ran my hand along my forehead, fingers brushing through hair to fix it where the hood had flattened it down.

I wasn’t really sure how to answer her.

“The whole gang is settled in at the kids’ H.Q., and it seems the older Heartbroken are jealous of our quartet of ten, eleven, and twelve-year-olds. They’re picking apart ideas, ganging up, pressing buttons, and being their worst selves. I give it three weeks before they start wanting to copy the chicken quartet.”

“Triple-pronged dildo,” I recalled.

“That would be Imp’s contribution to the conversation. Referring to Samuel. He’s a little gentleman and a much-needed level head, but he has his moments where he isn’t level and he becomes unmanageable, fake, stiff, and more than a little weird.”

“Imp’s contribution, as far as I can tell, is mythology and three-way dildos,” Sveta said.

“Triple-pronged. I’m fairly certain that’s three going one way. If you have questions about the mechanics of that, I’m sure Imp could explain it.”

“I’m fine,” Sveta answered. “I’ve dealt with more disturbing ideas than that. Like how you were talking about emotionally manipulating that teenage boy in your care.”

“Hold on,” I cut in. “No.”

“In Imp’s care,” Tattletale said. “And I wouldn’t throw stones about emotional manipulation, honey.”

“Woah,” I said. “Stop that right away, both of you.”

To their credit, they listened.

I checked my watch. Tattletale had estimated forty-five minutes as the outer range of our time limit, and that had been sixteen minutes ago.

Twenty-nine minutes. At most.

I could feel how much the two of them wanted to get back into it. Sveta hadn’t entirely abandoned the angry look at any point, and her position over the Old Man wasn’t helping, being so close to this degree of hurt.

“Brooms,” I said, to change the topic, and to refocus on important things.

“I was wondering when you’d ask.”

Tattletale sounded so damn pleased with herself.

“The Custodian,” Sveta said. “She was there before, a watchdog and builder, the person who kept the prisoners in their cells. If people have brooms, that means she’s not there anymore.”

“Do you have to steal my thunder?” Tattletale asked.

“If you pause to act smug when we’re in a rush, I’m going to hurry things along.”

“Well I’m not positive you’re right,” Tattletale said.

“Are you saying that because you’re sure or because you don’t want me to be the one with the answers?”