She had been crying too much lately and it didn’t help anything. And she didn’t know Maria very well at all—she’d known her two days, really—and you didn’t cry in front of perfect strangers, it just wasn’t done. She assured herself of all this, and then burst into tears on Maria’s shoulder. “There, there,” said Maria. “It’s over now and you made it back. I’ll make you some tea and some breakfast, and then you can sleep as long as you like.” Rhea let the cook steer her to a chair and plop her down. She scrubbed at her face and took a shuddery breath, then another. Maria set the tea in front of her, with a spoon in it to stir the honey. Rhea wrapped her cold fingers around the mug. “She’s still alive,” she said out loud, and felt a sob at the bottom of her throat. “She’s alive, Maria!” “Saw her, did you?” asked Maria grimly. “Well, and so she is.” “How—how long—?” “Long enough.” The heavy lines of Maria’s face were hard. “A few years.”
