Household Gods

Damn, thought Nicole, she’s easy to please. Men might think so, too, the way she walked. Dawn Soderstrom had swiveled her hips like that, but she’d needed heels to do it. Anyone who could manage it barefoot had determination, and one hell of a limber spine.

Once the woman was gone about her business, backfield in motion, odor, and all, Nicole could focus on what she’d said. She – Nicole – Umma – was mother to – two? three? how many? – children she’d never seen before.

And what about Kimberley and Justin, back in West Hills, back in the twentieth century? It hit her with a force so strong it knocked the breath out of her. All the while she’d been veering between panic and selfish delight, she hadn’t spared a moment’s thought for her own children. It might almost seem she was glad to be shut of them – to escape the daily drag of responsibility, the interruptions, the disruptions. Had she been hoping she’d be spared that here? Was she so terrible a mother?

God. What had happened to her own body, back in West Hills? Was it just… unoccupied? Had it gone into some kind of coma? What would happen to the kids? She hadn’t even gone in to kiss Kimberley good night, to see if her fever had gone down, or checked in on Justin and made sure he had his teddy beside him in case he woke up in the middle of the night. She’d been so tired, so fed up, so far over the top, that she’d put herself to bed and said her prayer and gone to sleep without a thought for her children.

No. No, something must have happened, the same way something had happened to make sure she spoke Latin. Somebody or something would look after Kimberley and Justin, at least till morning. Then -

Oh, God. They’d find her in a coma or worse. Would Kimberley know to dial 911? Would Justin -

She couldn’t think about that. She had to hope – to pray – they’d be all right. Her last prayer had been answered. Why not this one, too?

“Liber,” she whispered, “Libera, if you’re listening, do this one last thing for me, will you please?” Damn, she sounded like Nicole-in-the-office, asking Cyndi to do her a favor. Good legal secretaries sit at the right hand of God, every lawyer knows that, but it might not be strictly kosher to address a pair of gods as if they were the original administrative assistants.

She shook herself. It didn’t matter. “Just take care of them, okay?”

If she’d hoped for some sign, some feeling at least that she’d been heard, she didn’t get it. She caught herself smiling slowly, widely, and not at all nicely. If Nicole Gunther-Perrin wasn’t home anymore, there was no doubt at all who would inherit the kids. Frank and Dawn wouldn’t get much of a vacation. And Frank would finally, after all this time, be left holding the baby – literally. Twice over.

“There is justice in the universe,” Nicole said to the reek-rich air.

Her – servant, whatever, came back out of the shop carrying a chunk of bread, a small bowl, and a cup on a wooden tray. “Thank you,” Nicole said as the young woman set the tray down on a table just inside the door, where the light from outside was brightest.

“You’re welcome, Mistress.” The woman, whose name Nicole was going to have to learn soon or be in trouble, smiled another of those wide smiles. “Oh, you are kind today! Have the gods blessed you, then, Mistress? Is this a white day?”

Nicole stared blankly at her. The part of her that knew Latin knew that a white day meant a lucky day, marked in white on the Roman calendar. It still didn’t explain why the woman should be so transparently delighted to get a simple thank-you. Either Umma had been an ogre or something else was going on, something Nicole didn’t know enough to catch.

Her stomach growled loudly, drowning out the rattle of her thoughts. It wanted breakfast, and it wanted it now.

She pulled a stool over to the table, sat down, and examined her breakfast. The bread made her want to giggle. Had it been served in slices instead of a slab half a dozen slices thick, it would have done for Roman Meal: same medium-brown color, same coarse flour. She’d eaten a lot of bologna sandwiches on Roman Meal, growing up in Indianapolis. She tore off a piece and bit into it. It was fresher than any Roman Meal she’d ever eaten, and had a slightly smoky taste from being baked over a wood fire.

It was also grittier than any Roman Meal she’d ever eaten. She glanced at the stone quern beside the oven. Was that what had broken her front tooth, and what set the back one to aching whenever she wasn’t busy thinking about something else?

So she’d chew carefully. She was hungry.