There was a definite potential for trouble here, and someday he would have to get off his duff and straighten it out.

But there was time. Plenty of time. He had a lot of good years left, didn’t he?

He realized he had fallen into a habit of vacillating, of letting things work themselves out. Was that another sign of aging? Developing a more passive, accepting nature? A greater store of patience?

Fifteen years ago he would not have waited to see what was developing. He would have jumped in, flailed around, and would have made things happen. And the results might not have been positive.

Then, too, it might be the “luck” the old man had mentioned. That knack for intuiting the right course. It might be telling him to lay back in the weeds and wait this time. There was too much potential for fireworks in the apparently unrelated elements he had identified so far.

Got to be patient, he thought. Got to let it take shape. The things I think I see might all be false clues. There might be more Habibullahs waiting in the wings.

“You’re very somber tonight,” Kristen said.

“Uh? Oh. It was a tough game. I ran enough for two fifteen-year-olds.”

“If you’re that tired, maybe you’d better stay here tonight.”

He scanned what he could see of the house. Kristen had made it bright and cheerful. She had remarkable taste for a Wesson soldier’s daughter, he thought. Elegant, yet simple. “I couldn’t. There’s still too many ghosts for me.”

Kristen nodded. His first wife and several of his children had been murdered here. He could not make peace with the house. He had slept there only a few times since.

“No,” he said again. “I want to visit Mist tonight anyway. Maybe I’ll stay there. And watch that smile, little lady. There ain’t nothing between me and her, and there never will be. She’s too damned spooky for me.”

“I didn’t really think so. If she’s got a thing going, it’s with Aral Dantice.”

“Aral?”

“Sure. He’s out here all the time whenever she’s in town. Saw him this morning.”

He frowned, became thoughtful.

“For heaven’s sake, sit down,” Kristen said. “I’ll have them get something cooking. You kids better head for bed. It’s past time. Tell Bragi to come say hello to his grandfather.”

There were cries of protest. Ragnarson wanted to keep them there himself, but kept his mouth shut. He had abdicated his child-rearing responsibilities to Kristen. He wasn’t going to tamper with her routine or discipline.

He had made that mistake only once. She had told him what she thought. She had a spirited tongue when she was right.

And, obviously, she wanted to talk without little ears being there to hear.

Curious, he reflected. I hardly ever really talk with anybody anymore. All my real friends, male friends, are dead. Or have drifted away somewhat, like Michael, so there’s a chasm between us. It isn’t just Inger I can’t open to. It’s everybody.