The cab driver had opinions about jazz and the accelerator pedal and was not interested in reconciling the two, and Seraphina didn't mind at all. She was tired in the way that only happened when you had actually done something useful, the good tired, the earned kind, and she pressed her forehead against the cool window and watched the city roll past in its late-night costume.
The Hayes mansion had taken most of what she had. Eight hours of cleaning, cooking, sitting with Beatrice until the colour came back to her face. Worth it. All of it worth it.
What was not worth the space it was taking up in her head was Victoria Monroe's voice, filed neatly under things she had decided not to think about and was currently thinking about anyway. Must be very comfortable. Playing house with the boss. Delivered at the printer with the precision of someone who knew exactly how far sound travelled in that office, and gone before Seraphina had finished processing what she heard.
