His tail was thumping once every four seconds against the baseboard: thump… thump… thump.
Clara looked across the lawn toward me.
She didn’t scream.
She didn’t cry.
She met my eyes with an ancient, silent communion that forty generations of working mothers have carried through famines and wars:
“Sebastian,” Clara said, her voice carrying clearly across the thirty feet of green lawn:
“We have a guest.”
“Vice Admiral Sterling stopped by to discuss your future with the family.”
“I made him some chamomile tea.”
I walked up the four flagstone steps of my front porch.
The scent of brewing chamomile, honey, and toasted sourdough bread washed over me from the kitchen, clean and domestic, completely masking the synthetic odor of gun oil and cold titanium that hung in the foyer like a shadow.
“Is the tea warm, Clara?” I asked softly, stepping past her onto the oak floorboards.
