The boy looked up from his book.
He had been reading in the corner— a small thing, no older than eight, his dark hair falling across his forehead, his legs tucked beneath him on the chair. The book was thick. Too thick for a child his age. But he read it with the easy absorption of a boy who had nothing else to do and who had learned that books were better company than silence.
He looked at the bathroom door.
The sounds were still coming. The wet sounds. The moaning sounds. The muffled gasps and the rhythmic creaking of the copper tub shifting on the tile.
He looked at Vess. At Juhi. At Sera.
"Where is Mother?" he said. His voice was clear. Young. The voice of a child who has asked this question before and who expects a straight answer. "Why is she taking so much time in the bathroom?"
Vess laughed.
