Mira had said it on the terrace. Family.
This was what families did, she realized. This was what she’d never experienced as a child. Noisy, messy dinners with everyone talking over everyone else, which wasn’t as annoying as it should’ve been.
Stupid jokes and casual insults.
She wasn’t quite sure what to make of it when it applied to herself, but she could see what it might do to that pattern when something or someone damaged a part of the whole.
It would fall apart. Temporarily for those who were strong enough to glue it all back into pattern or make another. Permanently for those who couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.
She glanced at McNab. Even here, with all the chatter, there was a smear of worry over it all. If that one part of them stayed broken, the rest would tumble down like tiles. They’d form a new pattern—that was the job—but they’d never forget the way it had been.
She pushed back from the table. “I’ve got some stuff I need to do.”
“The Walking Dead said there was chocolate cake.”
“Jamie,” Roarke said mildly.
“Sorry,” Jamie said reluctantly. “Mister Walking Dead, also known as Summerset, said there was chocolate cake.”
“And if you eat it all, I’ll kill you in your sleep. Then you can join The Walking Dead. Roarke, I need to talk to you.”
As they started out, she heard Jamie ask: “Think they’re gonna go do it?” And heard the quick slap of Feeney’s hand on the teenaged skull.
“Are we going to go do it?” Roarke grabbed her hand.
“Want me to have Feeney knock you, too?”
“I’m a bit quicker than Jamie yet. But I take that to mean we’re not going back upstairs for a fast tumble.”
“How many times a day do you think about sex?”
He gave her a considering look. “Would that be actively thinking of it, or just having the concept of it lurking there, like Jamie’s invisible document?”
“Never mind. Did you see Mira before?”
“I didn’t, no. I was in the lab. Sorry I missed her. Peabody said Mavis stopped by as well, and needed a private word with you. Is she all right?”
“She’s knocked . . .” She didn’t have time for that little routine again. “She’s pregnant.”
“What?” He stopped in his tracks.
It was always a treat, a rare one, to see him stupefied. “Totally pregs, as she puts it. On purpose, too.”
“Mavis? Our Mavis?”
“One and the same. She came in jumping and spinning and dancing. I don’t know if she should be bouncing around like that now. Seems like you could, I don’t know, dislodge the thing in there. She’s really hyped.”
“Well, this is . . . lovely,” he decided. “Is she well?”
“I guess. Looks great anyway. Said she was puking in the mornings, but she liked it. I don’t get that.”
“No, I can’t say I do either. We’ll take them out to dinner as soon as we’re able. I should check on her performance and recording schedule.” He knew every bit as much about the care and feeding of expectant mothers as Eve did. Which was nothing. “I don’t suppose she should be overdoing.”
“If this afternoon was any gauge, she’s got enough energy for both of them, and then some.”
When they stepped into her office, she shut the door. The action made him lift a brow. “As you’ve vetoed sex, I assume you want privacy for a less pleasurable reason.”
“They’re blocking my warrant, and when you’ve got two bureaucracies duking it out in court, you can die from natural causes before there’s a ruling. I had a brief consult with Mira. I’ve still got to read her profile, but she gave me the gist in the oral. I got Baxter’s take.”