“Your family’s business is the same as his,” Sol pointed out. “He’s also as straightforward as they come. If he wanted a go at you, he’d tell you, and it’d be with fists, not politics.”
A fair assessment of the man’s character, though he’d not concede the point.
“Yet that’s what he’s up to his ears in,” Roger pointed out. From the seat on the Commission that should’ve been his. Or at least someone like him. Someone who made sense.
“Which is perhaps also a good thing,” his naïve friend had the nerve to suggest. “He has a perspective.”
“An unenlightened one.” Roger sniffed.
“Maybe,” Sol conceded. “But perhaps valuable in its own way.”
“He’s a self-righteous bore who likes me even less than I like him,” Roger told him as they moved into the hall. “You need to give up on the idea that we could ever be friends.”
He didn’t need friendship from Ellenberg and his ilk; he needed their acquiescence to his authority.
“One would’ve thought that about us,” Sol pointed out as they reached the stairway. “Perhaps you just need to change your perspective.” His friend placed his hat back on his head. “See something you might have missed, or perhaps, wasn’t there before.”
Before Roger could ask what he meant, Lopez reentered to help Sol with his coat, leaving Roger to return to his appropriate work for his appropriate life. Which he’d continue to maintain in the appropriate manner.
Rebecca stared out the window of the guest chamber at the fleetly falling snow, which transformed even the night sky gray. She could not recall a winter when it fell so much.
After composing a slightly evasive response to Isabelle’s latest question-filled missive, she’d spent most of the day in her corner of the kitchen, working. Well, sort of working. Her arm, despite being free from its sling, was still barely mobile. At least she’d been able to organize the new supplies. A group far short of the extensive collection she’d previously had.
Though, if one was being fair, one would have to admit that quite a few of her chemicals were difficult to obtain, not to mention those she’d synthesized herself. However, she had no desire to be fair. At least when it came to Berab.
Thankfully, she’d not been forced to endure his company since the night he kept offering her a drink. And had behaved so… well, befuddlingly. Somehow both in conformation to her previous assessments of the man and somehow not.
Still arrogant, still prejudiced, and still quite shallow, in multiple ways. A Jewish fop with a good enough wit to occasionally stumble upon a half-decent argument. He studiedDebrett’s, not the Zohar.
And yet… Rebecca pursed her lips as she stared into the falling flakes collecting on the sill. He’d defended her person from, well, not merely the judgment of others, but herself. Not insincerely.
Which suggested… No. It suggested nothing, or whatever else there was to the man, it didn’t matter to her. Nothing good could come from the two of them sparring. Not to mention the fact that the exhilaration she felt during had to be an… aberration. She was just bored from not working enough, that was all. Something she should find a way to rectify, as—
“Why are you here?” a small voice asked behind her, startling Rebecca so much that she nearly knocked her spectacles off her own nose.
Whirling around, Rebecca found Berab’s daughter standing in the center of the room, glaring at her, her dratted cat clutched in her arms, pugnacious expressions on both of their faces.
Oy.
Not what she needed that night. Or any night really.
Not that she had anything against children in particular, or at least, she did not dislike them any more than she disliked most adults.
This one, however, somehow appeared to have learned the worst habits of each of her parents, making her less than ideal company.
“Aren’t you going to answer me?” the child demanded, interrupting Rebecca’s thoughts.
Rebecca inhaled. A large part of her longed to respond with a sarcastic retort. However, such was beneath someone of her age and intelligence.
No, she supposed she should take the same tack she took whenever she was required to speak with children—directness. Something at which she was not only quite skilled but that most children seemed to prefer. Probably because it was a change from the more common infantilization they faced.
While such was tempting in this case, as it would no doubt bother Fannie Berab, she wasn’t cruel. Well, not that cruel.
“Because my home was damaged in such a way that it is dangerousto live in, and Dr. Maduro has advised that I stay here instead of at an inn while my injury heals,” she explained, indicating to her arm. “And I respect his professional opinion.” Even when it was irritating.
“How old are you?” Fannie all but demanded. Not waiting for an invitation, she climbed upon the bed with a flounce, the cat squirming against her chest.
What in the world was the child doing in here? And awake? Rebecca squinted at the mantel clock, which read nearly half-past nine.
