It also helps that the house has a really weird layout. The front door—so called because it’s big and has a porch and a doorbell and some decorative trellises with honeysuckle growing on them—leads, not to the foyer or the living room, but to a mudroom. The kitchen is on the other side, and the so-called “front room” is on the other side of that. It’s a mirror of what people generally expect to find in a house like ours.
(Coming in through the back door gives a more normal experience, except for the part where getting there requires climbing the carefully rickety deck stairs and crossing an expanse of weather-treated wood decorated with a portable barbeque and a bunch of lawn chairs. It all works. It’s all livable. But big chunks of it are intended to throw people who don’t understand us off-balance, because someone who doesn’t know whether they’re coming or going is way less likely to unload a pistol into your head.)
The mudroom was empty. The kitchen was empty except for a small cluster of Aeslin mice bravely delving for crumbs in the toaster, which was still plugged in. Aeslin teens, then. The younger members of the colony were big on pushing boundaries and testing their faith, at least until they settled down and became respectable members of the clergy. A few of them tossed a muted cheer in my direction, but mostly they ignored me. It was late. Even the mice were tired.
I crossed the kitchen, intending to head for the stairs, and stopped dead at the threshold to the front room. There was Sarah, curled up on the big couch with one of the decorative throw pillows clutched against her chest, her knees drawn almost to her chest, so that her entire body formed a perfect letter “C.”
She was still wearing the clothes she’d had on for the flight from Ohio, black leggings and a heavy sweater and sensible shoes. Her hair was an inky sweep across the pillows, her bangs almost hiding the cut on her forehead, and she had never looked so beautiful, or so breakable. What the hell was I thinking, getting involved with her? She was family. I mean, sure, we weren’t related, and we’d only semi-grown up together—no one would be able to call this full creepy—but she was supposed to be off-limits. I was supposed to take care of her and protect her and make sure she was happy and not afraid. I wasn’t supposed to make things worse.
But the way she’d kissed me, the way she’d talked about the idea of kissing me . . . maybe it was holding back that had been making things worse? Or maybe I was just trying to convince myself that something I really, really wanted to be true was true, and this was all a bad idea.
I drifted toward her, frowning a little. Something was still wrong. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it yet; whatever it was, it was subtle. She was breathing slow and steady, clearly asleep.
I’d been on the verge of a coma earlier, according to her. I sped up, pausing when I reached the couch. Sarah didn’t move, didn’t react to my presence.
Sarah? I thought, as loudly as I could. She still didn’t move.
I took a deep breath before leaning over to brush the hair away from her face. My fingertips barely brushed the curve of her cheek. She made a small, sleepy noise, lifting one hand and wiping the memory of my touch away, all without opening her eyes. I pulled my hand away and stepped carefully backward, first one step, then another, and another, until I was in the kitchen doorway.
The mice clustered around the toaster raised their heads and paid me exactly the amount of attention required to avoid being rude to one of their personal gods. It was a calculated snub, impressive for how well-practiced it was. I held a finger to my lips, gesturing for silence as I approached them, and crouched down by the counter so that my eyes were on a level with theirs. They looked at me with interest. A few of them vibrated with barely suppressed excitement, waiting to hear what I was going to say next. Hyper-religious mice can only pretend to be too cool for the clergy for so long.
“Hi,” I whispered, voice pitched so low that it was barely a breath. Human ears would have strained to hear me. I hoped the mice would be a different story. “I need you to be quiet and do something for me. Touch your ears if you agree.”
One by one, the mice touched their ears. I relaxed a little. Aeslin mice mean well, and they’re utterly devoted to the family, but the further something is from human, shape-wise, the less human its reactions are likely to be. Sometimes Aeslin will do things because they’re incapable of understanding that those things are a terrible idea. Sometimes that includes cheering when asked to be quiet, because the joy of receiving a direct request from one of their gods is so great that they simply can’t contain it. It’s not their fault. It’s frequently our problem.
(When I was little, I used to have nightmares about the family colony falling in love with me because of my pheromones. Dad told me, over and over again, that it was never going to happen, that Lilu are only irresistibly attractive to species we’re biologically compatible with whose sexual orientations are compatible with being attracted to us—and that’s a fun conversation for a seven-year-old to have with their father—but nightmares aren’t logical, and sometimes their blind, burning devotion could look an awful lot like love to a kid who was afraid of changing the world without intending to.)
“Were any of you down here when she went to sleep on the couch?” I pointed behind myself toward the couch.
The mice shook their heads.
Damn. I guess that would have been too easy, since it would have let me ask way more specific questions about what she’d been doing before that and how she’d looked before she curled up and put her head down. Oh, well.
“Watch her,” I instructed, still in that nearly silent whisper. “If she moves, one of you follows her, and the rest go looking for someone who can help you. Do you understand?”
Again, the mice touched their ears.
“I’ll bring you a pizza tomorrow,” I promised. The mice, mindful of their promise to be quiet, mimed cheering. I gave them a thumbs-up, and rose.
Buying pizza for the mice is always a fun way to horrify the local Italian restaurants. They don’t like any of the cheap take-out options—mice can have good taste, too—and they want everything on their pies. Everything. Pineapple and anchovies and when the seasonal specials line up, pears and walnuts and gorgonzola and balsamic vinegar. For them, it’s like having an entire buffet delivered straight to their door. For the pizzamakers who have to put their horrifying concoctions together, it’s like being punked by some asshole reality show.
As quietly as I could, I climbed the stairs to the second floor. All the doors there were closed, which is something we’re supposed to respect. An open bedroom door means company is welcome, a closed one means go the hell away. I ignored them and kept walking, until I reached the door at the end of the hall.
KEEP OUT said the sign on the front, and YES, VERITY, THIS MEANS YOU said the amendment underneath it, and I CAN SET FIRES WITH MY MIND NOW, LET ME SLEEP IN said the third piece of paper, all of them written in Antimony’s careful, tightly controlled hand. She had always been a big fan of block letters, which were unambiguous and easily read from a distance. Which was also a pretty good description of Annie herself, really.