“We can’t stop what we’re doing now,” Sister Thomasina said sharply. “Think of the children!”
“I am thinking of the children!”
Mrs. Silversmith’s voice, and that roused Alan out of his exhausted doze on Morgan and Aladdin faster than a gunshot. Airport lounge, chairs pushed together so they didn’t need to lose contact, Maria snuggled up with a bunch of the ak-al’ab nearby, who were trying to look small and quiet and asleep so the adults would never see the ambush coming. What was his dad’s wife doing with Sister Thomasina-
“My children,” Edna went on, voice as politely cutting as Alan had ever heard it. “Who are now targets, thanks to your church and its abominable disregard for law and common decency, you smug, hypocritical, overgrown penguin!”
But Sam’s hand was on Alan’s shoulder, one finger pressed to his lips in the universal plea for silence. Mom’s being awesome! he mouthed.
Oh yeah? This he had to see.
“Your children?” The sister was standing rock-solid, arms folded in her habit, scowling as she looked over street rats and – Alan would be the first to admit – a pile of people who looked like they’d spilled out of an Arabian Nights costume party. Which he was totally blaming Yunan for, because it was the magi’s fault, completely. Sure, Ja’far had been the one muttering about radioactivity and needing to change their clothes, but damn it, Yunan did atomic reconstruction like other magicians did little fire spells. He could have just swept anything radioactive off what they were wearing.
But no. A king – and his Household – has to look impressive. Alan smiled ruefully. Poor Drakon.