Are you going to mate her?
"No. "
John's brows jumped. Why not.
"It's complicated - actually, no. It's pretty simple. I blew up the relationship the night before last. There's no going back. "
Oh. . . shit.
"Yeah. " Tohr shook his head and looked around. "Yeah. . . "
The pair of them just stood there side by side, their eyes tracing the mess they had created out of the order that had once been. The state of the house was now, John supposed, rather like where their lives had been after Wellsie had been killed: blown apart, hollow, everything in wrong places.
It was more accurate than what had been before, though. False order, preserved out of a refusal to move on, was a dangerous kind of lie.
You're really going to sell the property? he signed.
"Yeah. Fritz is calling the Realtor as soon as the business day gets rolling. Unless. . . well, if you and Xhex want it, it goes without saying - "
No, I agree with you. Time to let it go.
"Listen, I want to see if you can take the next couple of nights off? There's a lot still to do here, and I like having you with me. "
Of course. I wouldn't miss this for anything.
"Good. That's good. "
The two of them stared at each other. I guess it's time to go.
Tohr nodded slowly. "Yeah, son. It really is. "
Without another word, the pair of them stepped out of the front door, locked up. . . and dematerialized back to the mansion.
As his molecules scattered, John felt like there should have been some kind of proclamation or exchange between them that was momentous, some conversational flag in the sand, a grave, milestone-y recitation of. . . something.
Then again, he supposed the healing process, in contrast to trauma, was gentle and slow. . .
The soft closing of a door, rather than a slam.
Chapter Sixty-Senven
Several nights after Autumn arrived at Xhex's cabin, a towel changed everything.
It was just a white hand towel, fresh from the dryer, destined to be rehung in the aboveground bathroom and used by either one of them. Nothing special. Nothing that Autumn hadn't handled either at the Brotherhood mansion or up in the Sanctuary over the course of decades and decades and decades.
But that was the point.
As she held it in her hands, feeling the warmth and the soft nap, she began to think of all the laundry she had done. And the trays of food she had delivered to the Chosen. And the bedding platforms she had made. And the stacks of johnnies and scrubs and towels. . .
Years and years of maid service that she had been proud to do. . .
You've been making a martyr out of yourself for centuries.
"I have not. " She refolded the towel. And unfolded it again.
As her hands made work for themselves, Tohr's angry voice refused to yield. In fact, it got even louder in her head as she went out and saw the floors gleaming from her hand-polishing, and the windows sparkling, and the kitchen neat as a pin.
That symphath was your fault. I'm your fault. The weight of the world is all your fault -