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No more hands or questions. The mood was somber.
She inclined her head. “If that’s all, I shall wish you goodnight.”
Athelinda made her way out of the hall. She had no desire to stay and socialize. Instead, she walked back up the street to her lodgings. She pushed open the door. Candles glowed within. A fire had been lit in the hearth. More for cheer than warmth.
Two moth-eaten velvet armchairs had been arranged around the fire. A handsome young man with a silky curtain of blond hair sat, reading, in one of them. He glanced up as Athelinda entered.
“You’re home?”
“You’re observant, Michael.”
He rose and took Athelinda’s jacket, hanging it on a stand near the door. Athelinda sat down in the other armchair and took her pipe out of her pocket. She filled it with tobacco and lit it. Pungent smoke rose into the air.
“How are you?” Michael asked.
“Fucking tired.” She glanced at him. “You weren’t at the meeting.”
“No.”
“Why?”
He said tersely, “You know how I feel.”
“The same as your friend Jonah?”
He didn’t reply. Instead, he knelt and pulled out a small footstool from beneath her chair then lifted her feet on to it. He took off her boots and socks.
“Do you think Tucker will deliver the message?” He began to massage her feet, working out the tension.
“Yes. He still feels guilty.”
“He should.”
Athelinda would never admit it, but she had some sympathy for Tucker. It was the only reason he wasn’t dead.
“There’s another detective,” she said. “A woman.”
Michael looked up. “A problem?”
“I don’t know.”
The woman looked harmless. Fat, dull, stupid. But Athelinda knew better than anyone that looks could be deceptive. She had sensed something more about her. It was hard to pinpoint.
“I told her to ask about the Bone House.”
“Are you sure you’re right about this?”
“No. That’s why I want your help. I want you to go back to that shithole bar.”
He frowned. “I thought you didn’t like—”
“I know what I said.” She cut him off sharply. “And I know you’ve been visiting anyway.”
He looked up at her, startled. “How?”
“You think you can hide your cravings from me?” She shook her head. “You’re my son, Michael.”
Athelinda reached forward and stroked his silky hair. She still loved the feel of it, trailing through her fingers; remembered how she would caress his soft head for hours while he lay beside her in bed. Born over ninety years ago, he had torn her apart on his entry into the world. She would never bear another child. He was all she had. Precious. Infuriating. And half-human.
