Lowbeer’s sigil pulsed. Netherton tongued mute. “Yes?”
“Providing emotional support to distraught clients is a major aspect of Rainey’s work now, I gather.”
Netherton looked at the back of the vehicle’s driver’s almost shaven skull, the antique motorway ahead of them, Verity herself seated to the drone’s right, semi-opaque windows to either side. “It is.”
“Let’s consider her a part of this, then, going forward. I imagine the two of them might get along. I’ll discuss it with her, arrange compensation.”
“I doubt compensation would be a factor,” Netherton said. Opening his eyes again, not seeing Rainey, he stood, went into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of pomegranate juice, and drank.
“I agree,” said Lowbeer. “That’s why I think she might be helpful.”
Netherton watched the coronet-emblazoned sigil fade, feeling vaguely demoted but nonetheless proud of Rainey, for being who she was.