“My friend”—he gestures toward Dorian—“is arranging for you to tour the land of your ancestors with a real estate agent until you find your dream house.” Mrs. Fiona’s jaw slackens as though fashioned from old rubber instead of bone. “Why?” “Because I’d like to thank you for your kindness toward the Blooms.” “By makin’ me tour houses?” “By buying you one.” Tarian’s fingers begin to stroke. Her alarmed gaze drops to my hip, to the hand I placed over Tarian’s. “A whole house?” “Usually, people prefer whole houses to halved ones,” he deadpans, which makes a smile warp the tense line of my lips.
