Morrigan's Cross (Circle Trilogy 1)

“I don’t know that much about it,” she said under the Indian music pumping from the cabbie’s radio. “It’s a cab, a kind of car. It runs on a combustible engine, fueled by gasoline, and oil.”

She did her best to explain traffic lights, crosswalks, skyscrapers, department stores and whatever else came to mind. She realized it was like seeing the city for the first time herself, and began to enjoy it.

He listened. She could all but see him absorbing and tucking all the information, the sights, the sounds, the smells, away in some internal data bank.

“There are so many.” He said it quietly, and the troubled tone had her looking over at him. “So many people,” he repeated, staring out the side window. “And unaware of what’s coming. How will we save so many?”

It struck her then, a sharp, weighted spear in the belly. So many people, yes. And this was just part of one city in just one state. “We can’t. Not all. You never can.” She reached for his hand, gripped it tight. “So you don’t think of the many, or you’ll go crazy. We just take it one at a time.”

She took out the fare when the cab pulled over—which made her think of finances, and how she’d handle that little problem over the next few months. She reached for Hoyt’s hand again when they were on the sidewalk.

“This is my building. If we see anyone inside, just smile and look charming. They’ll just think I’m bringing home a lover.”

Shock rippled over his face. “Do you?”

“Now and again.” She unlocked the door, then squeezed with him into the tiny anteroom to call for the elevator. With an even tighter squeeze, they started up.

“Do all buildings have these…”

“Elevators. No, but a lot of them do.” When they reached her apartment, she pulled open the iron gate, stepped inside.

It was a small space, but the light was excellent. Her walls were covered with her paintings and her photographs, and were painted the green of minced onions to reflect the light. Rugs she’d woven herself dotted the floor with bold tones and patterns.

It was tidy, which suited her nature. Her convertible bed was made up as a sofa for the day, plumped with pillows. The kitchen alcove sparkled from a recent scrubbing.

“You live alone. With no one to help you.”

“I can’t afford help, and I like living alone. Staff and servants take money, and I don’t have enough of it.”

“Have you no men in your family, no stipend or allowance?”

“No allowance since I was ten,” she said dryly. “I work. Women work just as men do. Ideally, we don’t depend on a man to take care of us, financially or otherwise.”

She tossed her purse aside. “I make my living such as it is selling paintings and photographs. Painting, for the most part for greeting cards like notes, letters, messages people send each other.”

“Ah, you’re an artist.”

“That’s right,” she agreed, amused that her choice of employment, at least, seemed to meet with his approval. “The greeting cards, those pay the rent. But I sell some of the artwork outright now and then. I like working for myself, too. I make my own schedule, which is lucky for you. I don’t have anyone to answer to, so I can take time to do, well, what has to be done.”

“My mother is an artist, in her way. Her tapestries are beautiful.” He stepped up to a painting of a mermaid, rising up out of a churning sea. There was power in the face, a kind of knowledge that he took as inherently female. “This is your work?”

“Yes.”

“It shows skill, and that magic that moves into color and shape.”

More than approval, she decided. Admiration now, and she let it warm her. “Thanks. Normally, that kind of thumbnail review would make my day. It’s just that it’s a very strange day. I need to change my clothes.”

He nodded absently, moved to another painting.

Behind him, Glenna cocked her head, then shrugged. She went to the old armoire she used as a closet, chose what she wanted, then carried it into the bathroom.

She was used to men paying a little more attention, she realized as she stripped out of the dress. To the way she looked, the way she moved. It was lowering to be so easily dismissed, even if he did have more important things on his mind.

She changed into jeans and a white tank. Letting the subtle glamour she’d been vain enough to use that morning fade, she did her makeup, then tied her hair back into a short tail.

When she came back, Hoyt was in her kitchen, fiddling with her herbs.

“Don’t touch my stuff.” She slapped his hand away.