The next morning at the new cottage was silent. Eric woke suddenly, keeping still, listening for the sound that roused him. After a moment, he realized that it was the silence that disturbed him. Even in their last apartment, there was noise from the rooms below; residents beginning or ending split shifts, running water, running feet, echoes of laughter or anger, doors closing. Here there was a peace never known in the flimsy tenements of city Housing. He turned his head to look at his partner. Alan slept on, color not very good, curled in on himself as he did when feeling unhappy or threatened. But he had not collapsed into depression as Eric had feared. He needed rest, and feeding up, and light but interesting work. Finally he would have it.

Eric slid from the bed (wonderfully comfortable, and long enough that he could stretch out properly without extending beyond the mattress at one end or the other, or both as in his early days) and availed himself of cascades of hot water, a richly lathering soap, and a large soft towel. He looked into the mirror and considered growing his beard out. He put the decision off pending further investigation of their need to disguise themselves. Did Chandless' Branch interact with those of larger cities? Did they loan teams to epidemic-stricken areas? Receive visitors who might recognize the new hires and carry the knowledge away? He would study the portal in the hall closet and set a couple of escape destinations.

Eliza might not agree with Will's dismissals. Eric did not want to discuss it with Herself. More, he did not want Alan to be shamed or manipulated into returning to London. Madame, according to Chandless, could not demand their return, but her superiors might be able to; might even authorize a snatch mission. They'd regret it. He'd be working on the cottage's defenses while Alan rested. It's not madness if they really are out to get you. Assume you will be hunted.

He returned to the bedroom for a set of casual clothing – now that was interesting – most Reapers lived in uniform because it was work or sleep and little else. But here there were trews in a blue sergé de Nîmes, or denim, with rivets at the stress points. Quite comfortable, and very durable. The mineshaft Reapers had mentioned seeing these being worn by their Reaps. Remarkably comfortable canvas shoes and a blue work shirt. Eric approved heartily.

He wondered, briefly, about the timing of their dismissal. Most unlike Will to dispose of a proven battlefield and pandemic-front team when the Branch was stretched to cover the Lists. Perhaps he had new information from Upstairs. But London had a comparatively well-staffed and experienced workforce, equal to the demands of the City. His Security teams could split up his duties. Battlefield teams would be coming home soon. The pandemic would pause when the weather warmed up. Alan only had two aides at the moment, but both were quite talented. They'd manage, and they'd manage Ronnie. That might be interesting. Would Ronnie grow into the role? Doubtful. He had died too young. Reapers expanded rather than matured, mostly, if they joined the ranks too early. In all his years at London, Ronnie had remained an adolescent. Alan had nurtured sparks of growth; working for Will had somehow snuffed them. Still, his preference for partying might be valuable enough if he gathered a competent staff to do the work he considered boring. The Academy would have to scramble a bit, but cancelling classes until the next midsummer gave them time to adjust.

Will had probably decided that they were expendable. Alan far too clever, Eric too disrespectful, both too willing to ask for forgiveness rather than permission. If all this was about Smitty, well, Scythes would already have a watertight defense in place. Very unwise to play power games with Scythes.

Alan stirred slightly. Eric tucked the blankets around him and glided away on rubber soles, as quiet as Death.

He went outside to explore his new surroundings. He had lived his human life on a Scottish croft. Those memories were gone, leaving only a dim impression of aching muscles and hunger. He had Reaped those areas in between plagues and wars. Out back he found a tool shed with a few basic gardening implements and some lumber. This was not going to be a subsistence-level farm, but a garden. Alan would make it beautiful, comfortable, welcoming; Eric would make it safe. He continued around the cottage, looking for any repairs needed. Finding none, he considered the yard. November was not the most pleasant month – wet and cold and grey – but Alan would want to sit out here and make his plans. Eric looked up, judging the brightest spot of grey in the overcast sky, and estimating where the sun might be at high summer. He would build Alan a bench, just about—here. He could see Alan here, surrounded by students sitting on the grass, listening intently to his words of experience.

He would check the perimeters and ask the builders what defenses might be desirable or already included.

There would be time to rest and learn, and wasn't that a blessing beyond all measure. Time to heal the wounds they did not realize they had. Maybe fifteen years before people really started looking for them, as the humans turned again to war and Reapers began to remember Alan's skills and his newspapers. Another three or four years of fighting to stay here. Then Eric would drive the hardest bargain he could with Uppers powerful enough to keep their promises. And now it was time to investigate the kitchen and put the kettle on.

A sound behind him. He spun around, scythe and blade at the ready. A slight bright figure said "Eeep!" and then, "Uncle Eric! It's only me."

He lowered his weapons but did not banish them. "What was my name when we played, child?"

"You were the Great Bear, and once the Trumpeting Pachyderm. Oh, Uncle Eric, don't be afraid. Are you expecting an attack? I come alone, bearing apologies from Gregory and a gift for Uncle Alan." She held up a decorated and beribboned box.

It was Gregory, then, who had thrown Alan into the wall. Well, he had always been the brash and bumptious one. "Alan has recovered, Isabel."

"Well, Gregory hasn't. Mama says he is the Greatest Beast In Nature. Papa gave him a most lowering lecture, and called him a Mannerless Puppy." She scowled in thought. "Which he is, and I told him so. But it's hard for him, you know, being in military training. Their sergeants substitute shouting for courtesy, which he was never that good at anyway, and teach that everything is an enemy. And then he visits us and has to be told to leave it at the door. He's trying, though, because Mama says she will not bake cakes and tarts for uncivilized barbarians."

Eric relaxed and banished his weapons. "I take it that Edmund is a little better at it?"

"Yes. But he has always preferred to stand back and watch Gregory put his foot in it, and then try to smooth things over. Anyway, Gregory sends his apologies because he'd never have another of Mama's pies if he didn't. And I do think he's really, truly sorry."

"Aye, me lass. Alan will forgive him. Welcome. Is yer Mam well with her fine new wings? And how are ye doing in Raphael's host? Does Ramiel still make cows-eyes at ye when he thinks ye dinna see? Nae blushing, now. Come awa' ben, and we shall look for something cinnamon. Will ye ha' coffee or tea?"

In the kitchen they found Alan, who had put the kettle on. He started, but did not drop the teapot. "Have we been traced already? Eric, do we have to run?"

"Oh, Uncle Alan, I'm so sorry to alarm you! Nobody's asked us to find you! I have Gregory's apologies and a gift for you, and Papa works for the Recording Angel, so I just asked him where we might meet. He waved a hand and here I am. I didn't even know you'd moved. It's a lovely little house." She set her box on the kitchen counter. "Mama and I thought you might like these, and now you actually have a place all your own for them. We did worry that you might have to set them out in the Human Realm somewhere and only be able to visit them occasionally. It's a small thing to remember us by."

"Well, me Light, open your present," said Eric, rescuing the teapot clutched to Alan's chest. "I'll see to the tea."

Alan admired the box, decorated with artful designs on body and lid, slid the ribbon off, and lifted up the top. He removed crumpled paper from around a burlap parcel within. He lifted it out, carefully – it was a bit damp – and peeled the sacking away from a wooden frame holding three terra-cotta flower pots with a few bare, defiantly thorny stems planted in their soil.

"Mama started these for you last summer. They're dormant, but fully rooted. They are cuttings from the roses you placed under our windows in London to keep prowlers out. They have the most exquisite perfume and bloom in June and September."

Alan looked up, smiling. "This is wonderful!" He rewrapped the burlap. "Let us set these outside before they can warm up too much. This is a wonderful, welcome present, Isabel! I could ask for nothing better. I had hoped to retrieve a cutting myself, but – but time ran out, and I gave up the idea. My heartfelt thanks to Marianne and yourself."

While Alan and Isobel found a spade and a protected spot in the yard for the roses to continue their winter sleep, Eric sliced bread and made toast and tea. There was butter in the Frigidaire and spices in the cabinet, so he stirred a tablespoon of ground cinnamon into a quarter-cup of sugar to sprinkle over the buttered toast. For it was true, angels loved cinnamon. He set the teapot on the table. Looking out the large window where Alan's ivy thrived, he saw the pots had been sunk in the ground with dirt mounded over them. The gardeners were returning to wash up. He invited them to sit for a lovely chat over tea. Isobel addressed the cinnamon toast with enthusiasm. Alan sipped, nibbled, and tired quickly.

When Isobel thanked them and said it was time for her to go, Eric walked her back to the end of the path. "Me girl, a single favor."

"What, Uncle Eric?"

"Ask Matthias to keep us secret. If the Reapers come asking, don't tell them where we are. Alan needs rest – ye can see it, aye? They will likely forget us in a day or two, but if they don't, they may think it easier to force us back than to learn to do our work. True, they kicked us out. But something about the kicking worries me. They might change their minds and try to change ours."

"I will tell Papa what you have said. Is it acceptable that I lay a blessing on your home? Because Uncle Alan looks unwell in ways a Reaper really shouldn't."

"Please do, bright Angel, and accept the blessing of a Reaper in return."

"I can't do anything major because I'm still learning, but I will give all I can." She turned to face the cottage, raising and spreading her hands to include the entire property. Her voice took on a bell-like tone. "Heaven bless this home and the land it rests on; let peace, plenty, and love reign here. Let food be tempting and sleep be sound; let the rooms be comfortable and welcoming, the garden bountiful and beautiful in all its seasons; may all who live or visit here rejoice in health and happiness." She snapped her fingers. "And no bugs may cross the threshold. In case Uncle Alan decides he wants honeybees."

"Bless ye, child, and know that if ever ye shall need whatever help a Reaper can give, ye shall have it in abundance and gratitude."