Page 32 of The Reluctant Reaper
“Sure, sure. I’ll just jot all your notes in my death-god-shenanigans notebook.”
“I’ve said it before, dear, but it bears repeating,” Hilly said, refilling Gray’s grape juice. “You’re handling this so well.”
“Hanging out with Amara is good practice when it comes to shenanigans.”
“Arawn, what happened to your glorious blue Labs?” Skye speared another chunk of ham and popped it in her mouth. “I liked them very much. The older they got, the more they resembled furry barrels on legs.”
“I’m afraid as they got older and more incontinent, I had to put?—”
“Shhhh! Not in front of the houndlets,” Gray begged, jerking his head toward the attentive trio.
“I’ll say this, it’s nice that the new bunch doesn’t produce puddles of drool,” Penny said. Her husband reached for a berry from her plate and she playfully slapped his hand away. “That was their only bad quality. That and the flatulence.”
“That’s endemic in all Labradors, Persephone,” Arawn chuckled. “Especially as they get older.” He tented his fingers and gave Gray a long look. “And congratulations, youngster. I cannot recall the last time I was hushed.”
“I’m sorry. I was just looking out for your houndlets.”
“Understood.” Arawn settled back in his chair. “And so I let the impertinence pass.”
Hilly cleared her throat. “As I was saying before Skye joined us, it’s a delight to see you all, even under these, er, circumstances. Especially Amara and her... her friend.”
“Why do people keep doing that?” Gray whispered to Amara, who shook her head.
“Did I not guarantee her presence?” La Croix asked, all expansive mood and relaxed air. His default arrogance never failed to make her want to bite something. “You wished for it, Hilly, and I made it so. And to Amara’s credit, she did not hesitate.”
Amara raised her eyebrows.
“Once she understood the severity,” La Croix remedied. “Your idea to bring the crown was well done.”
Oh, for the love of...Of course it had been her mother’splotidea. She served Death in all things. So did every living thing, to be fair, but her mother tended to go overboard.
“Amara’s too jaded for one so young,” Hilly said. “But the immoderate always made an impression on her.”
Amara dropped her fork and it hit her plate with a clatter. “Gosh, this is all so swell. Truly. I love being discussed like I’m not even in the fucking room. Yes, I’m aware I used profanity, Mother,” she snapped. “Did you ever consider it’s on purpose as opposed to a slip of the tongue? I’m pushing thirty, for God’s sake. I’m allowed the occasional F-bomb.”
“And the occasional S-bomb, C-bomb, and X-bomb.”
She snorted (which was Gray’s intention) and got up for more food. Her mother had laid out a traditional breakfast on the sideboard, a ridiculously long and ungainly piece of furniture someone chopped out of mahogany a couple of centuries ago. The wood was so dark it was nearly black, with dragonvine carvings and the marks of hard service. Sooo many water rings.
Gray in particular seemed pleased to see the vast buffet: scrambled eggs and salmon, more of the dreaded savory oatmeal, several loaves of various breads, cold cuts (Amara had been eight before she realized most Americans don’t normally have roast beef sandwiches for breakfast), gravlax, miniature loaves of dense rye bread, bowls of yogurt, platters of berries, a ham shank brushed with brown sugar and butter, nine pounds of bacon, and brown cheese.
“Everything’s so good, Hilly,” Gray groaned. “And there was a ton of good food last night, too. That you just had lying around! How are you guys not really, really fat?”
“Hard work and exercise,” her mother replied, then laughed. “Just teasing. Metabolism.”
“Well, it’s working for you. Hey, Amara, after seeing where you grew up,” Gray continued, waving his fork at the dining hall, “I get now why your apartment is a tiny minimalist modern craphole.”
“Is it?” Hilly asked. “Her father and I have never seen it.”
“Whose fault is that, Mom? And I think ‘craphole’ is unnecessary and unkind,” Amara sniffed. “I like small and I like cluttered. So it’s perfect.”
“But why move a state away? We understood your need for your own residence?—”
“Did you, Mom? Because you went from your dad’s house to here. You’ve never had your own place.”
“By choice,” Hilly pointed out sharply. “My point stands; there was no need to move so far.”
“I could have picked San Diego. Or Paris. Or Moscow.” She could hear the petulance in her tone and was getting as irritated with herself as with her parents.Home barely twelve hours and we’re singing the same old battle songs.“Count your blessings, Mother.”
