She was waiting in my kitchen.
Not Darius's kitchen — mine. The one off the east corridor with the commercial range and the stocked pantry and the brass key that had dismantled me when I first understood what it meant. Luna was sitting on the counter — her preferred surface in any kitchen — with her legs crossed and a mug in both hands and the expression of a woman who has been patient for approximately as long as she was capable of being patient and has now run out.
"Good morning," she said.
"It's early," I said.
"It is," she agreed. "I've been up for a while. Thinking." She sipped her coffee. "About eleven things, specifically."
"Your message list," I said.
"You saw it?"
"Darius showed me the timestamps."
Something luminous moved across her face — the specific delight of someone
