"I don't care who your boss is," Mom said in a low, fervent whisper. I could almost picture the posture that went with it. Hands braced on hips, leaning forward so she was almost nose-to-nose with the speaker. Her lips would be pressed into a thin line, the fire in her eyes so fierce you expected sparks to leap out and singe the carpet.

Ice slipped into my stomach when I realized exactly what the voice meant. I cracked one eye open and got an eyeful of soft brown upholstery. It was more worn than it had been in the soulgaze, subjected to many years of use and childhood mishaps. Mom was a trained stain exorcist, so spills and sticky fingers rarely stayed for long, but they still took their toll. But the fact I'd woken up on the old couch could only mean one thing.

I was home. Somehow, some way, Dad had managed to carry me back to his truck and ferry me back to the house.

The voice that answered her was familiar. Deep and gruff. I was used to hearing him speak in monosyllables. Marcone had made him and Ms. Gard my unofficial handlers after I'd accepted the job. I had the impression they'd been ordered to kill me if I stepped out of line.

"Mrs. Carpenter," Hendricks began. "I'm afraid Mr. Marcone has made his wishes clear. She's meant to be back at headquarters. She can sleep in the truck."

"No," Mom said in that same furious whisper. Somehow she'd managed to drown him out, despite not raising her voice. "I won't have you slinging her over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Molly needs rest and a good meal. If she wants to go with you after she wakes up, that's her business. For now, I really think you should wait in the kitchen."

"But-"

"I've just finished a roast and mashed potatoes. They're good and you should try some."

It wasn't so much a suggestion as a thinly veiled threat. The steely note in her voice told me that if he didn't sit and eat supper she was going to personally shove his head in the crockpot. Hendricks seemed to pick up on that too because I caught a glimpse of a pair of steel-toed boots as he trudged in the direction she'd indicated.

"If she's not up in an hour, I need to take her back. Marcone's orders."

"We'll see," Mom said in that same hard voice. "There's butter in the fridge if you'd like some for the potatoes."

Hendricks grumbled his thanks before disappearing around the corner to nurse his pride. A mountain of a man cowed by a housewife. It would have been funny if I didn't feel so sick. The light streaming in through the windows told me it was around sunset, meaning I'd slept the remainder of the day away. It made sense that Hendricks would show up at my parent's door. Any radio silence when I was not actively being pursued by the Fomor was suspect and therefore subject to investigation. I'd gone missing for hours and hadn't signaled Gard to take my place, so Hendricks was here to drag me in. Marcone was going to tear me a new one when we reached headquarters.

Mom's weight settled near my head, one hip propped against the arm of the sofa. One of her hands smoothed over my hair, and the touch was so gentle and reassuring I was tempted to slip right back into sleep. She'd break out her war hammer and go toe-to-toe with Hendricks if he tried to grab me. Which might have been entertaining in theory, but disastrous in practice. Marcone valued Hendricks, and he'd take umbrage with someone hurting or killing him. He'd bought at least half the city's politicians, lawyers, and policemen, and he could make my family's life hell if he so chose. My Dad's angelic bodyguards were meant to ward off supernatural threats, not the petty whims of a human mobster. If she chose to throw down with Hendricks, there was no way they could protect her from the fallout.

"If you want to fake sleep, you shouldn't frown so hard," she said. "It's a dead giveaway."

I tensed under her hand, willing myself to fall back to sleep. It didn't work. With just a handful of words, she'd jolted me fully awake. I rolled onto my side, glancing up as I did so. She was looking down at me, face soft with concern, an almost exact mirror of Dad's expression earlier in the day. I didn't have to ask if she knew. I could see it in her eyes. Feel it too. She was hollow inside, as if someone had scooped out her guts and left only a desperate, aching sadness in its place.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"I'm not," she said, seeming to know exactly what I meant. "Daniel wouldn't have wanted to go on as he was. Even if you could have done the impossible and brought his mind back, he would have had to live with the knowledge of what he'd done. I think it would have crushed him. You know better than anyone how that feels. I'm grateful..." Her voice faltered and she had to swallow a few times before she could try again. "I'm grateful he isn't suffering."

My eyes itched so fiercely that I had to squeeze them shut. I'd cried enough for one day. If I started, she'd follow, and I wasn't going to have a sob fest in front of Hendricks. I didn't need him reporting to his boss how unstable I was.

"It was my fault," I said with a sniffle.

"It wasn't your fault," Mom snapped, real heat behind the words. "There is someone to blame, but God saw fit to take him before I could give him a piece of my mind. And it's a good thing too. I probably would have murdered him. He knew better, and he took Daniel anyway. I'm just sorry that it fell to you to clean up the mess he left behind."

She hadn't said the name, but we both knew who she meant. Harry Dresden. Harry had taken Daniel into battle, knowing full well what he was costing my brother. And he'd done it anyway. For the best of reasons, maybe, but by saving his daughter, he'd cost my family a son. Would he have considered it a fair trade, if he was around to see the results?

I wasn't sure how to answer her, so I kept my mouth shut. The only sound in the room was the hush of air flowing through the room. Which was...wrong. Aside from bedtimes, the house was rarely ever quiet.

"Where are the Jawas?"

She smiled faintly. "With my mother. It isn't time for that meeting just yet."

Relief and gratitude well up inside me, and it was all I could do not to burst into tears. They knew. They always seemed to know exactly what to do or say. How the hell had I gotten lucky enough to have parents like this?

"Thank you," I finally managed.

"I'd like you to visit for Christmas if you wouldn't mind," she said. "Amanda has been learning to knit, and she's set on making you a sweater. It's an...ah...abstract design at the moment, but it's the thought that counts."

A strangled laugh escaped me. I could just picture some wildly colorful monstrosity with no head hole and three arms. It seemed like the sort of thing an overly ambitious novice would do.

"Well, ugly Christmas sweaters are kind of a tradition, aren't they? I'll fit right in."

Warmth suffused her whole face when she gave me a genuinely pleased smile.

"Thank you. And speaking of things to wear..." She reached down and plucked something from the coffee table. A mound of black cloth landed on my lap a few moments later. "I want you to try these on after supper. I worked from the measurements you gave me last summer, but you've put on muscle since then. I may have to adjust the seams a bit."

I frowned at the fabric. "What are they?"

"A gambeson, surcoat, and mantle. You have a new nickname, and these will suit the persona better than stealing your father's old things. I have armor waiting for you in the workshop. It was a pain to burn oil into the surface to make it black, but I managed. If you come back this weekend, your father can show you how best to fight in it. It takes a while to figure out the new weight distribution."

My throat closed up. Armor. My mother had spent sweltering days in the workshop laboring over a forge so she could give me armor.

"Why?" was all I could think to ask. "Why give me this? I thought you'd hate what I'm doing."

"I do," she said with a laugh. "The more selfish part of my nature wants to lock you in the house and keep you from ever leaving again. I hated it when your father left to do God's work, and I don't like it any better now the mantle has passed on to you. I can't stop you from fighting the good fight, but I can protect you to the best of my ability. Promise me you'll take them when you go."

"I will," I said immediately.

I'd be crazy not to. I'd have to start my defensive spell regimen all over again, but it would be well worth fighting in clothing and armor that fit. Besides, she made some of the best armor I'd ever seen. I'd be loaded for bear against anything that came my way, especially if she'd included some sort of helm.

I threw my arms around her waist and squeezed, hiding the sheen of tears that clouded my eyes. This was more than I could have ever asked for. Far more than I'd expected.

"Thank you so much."

She squeezed back, sniffling a little as she did. I wasn't the only one close to tears. After a moment she pulled back, standing and brushing the creases from her apron with a businesslike air.

"Supper," she announced. "And then you need to make a call to the odious Baron of Chicago. I don't want his muscle man looming over my shoulder while we adjust your uniform."

I grinned. The expression felt foreign on my face, and I was sure it looked lopsided. Blunted affect made every expression look insincere. If it bothered her, it didn't show.

"I'll do that."

"Good. Now wash your hands. I'll have a plate ready when you come back."

I got up and walked dutifully to the bathroom and ran soapy hands under the tap. My chest and shoulders felt lighter than they had in months. The secret was out, and I was somehow still on speaking terms with my family. More than that, I had armor waiting, and an appointment with Dad to learn how best to use it. The smile in the mirror was as lopsided as I'd expected, but it didn't bother me now. Mom believed I was doing what was right. That it was God's work. I wasn't sure I believed that, but that faith felt good.

"My breastplate of righteousness has Kevlar," I said to no one in particular. "Take that, bitches."