The living room was bright, soft, and contemporary in a way that whispered home rather than display. Phei's clothes — newly delivered, several large bags' worth, the unmistakable matte black of Hell's Paradise's premier tailoring — were laid out across the long pale sofa in the careful, loving order of a woman who had been doing this kind of work since long before there had been any permission in the last years of her life to do it without hiding it from her husband and her very children.
Melissa went back and was standing over them; she returned to skimming, sorting, holding up one casual jacket against the light, then setting it down with a small breath of approval, like she'd been doing before Cassiopeia interrupted.
