The next day, Benjamin woke to the soft, rhythmic sound of someone cleaning.
Dust cloth against wood. The quiet scrape of a shelf being wiped. The faint creak of floorboards under careful footsteps.
When he opened his eyes, the morning light from the single window fell across the guest room in a pale rectangle, and Erica was already moving through it with methodical focus.
Heka clung to Benjamin's body like a particularly determined flea.
Her arms were locked around his midsection. Her face was pressed against his side.
Her breathing was deep and even in sleep, slow and steady, the rhythm of someone who had been there for hours and had no intention of moving.
Looking closer, Benjamin saw a pout fixed on Erica's mouth.
The expression was unmistakable even in profile. The lower lip pushed out. The brow furrowed.
The whole face set in an attitude of wounded dignity that would have been funny if it hadn't been so obviously genuine.
