General Mercer pulled a heavy leather-bound docket from the bottom of the cabinet:
*THUD.*
“I put those handwritten index cards on those laundromat bulletin boards eight years ago, Clara,” Aunt Eleanor revealed, a fierce, protective fire blazing in her eyes:
“I didn’t hire a cleaning lady.”
“I brought the commissioned heir back inside her own gate.”
“Every Thursday you cleaned this house, your weekly wage was being matched ten-to-one into an un-indexed sovereign admiralty escrow account.”
“Every Thursday you dusted those cabinets, you were maintaining the surface perimeter of Valve Station Ten.”
“And today…
Saturday, October second, twenty-twenty-six…”
Aunt Eleanor checked the chronometer on her wrist:
“…is the final statutory deadline!”
“Midnight tonight, Clara!”
“The seventy-year spendthrift restriction on Arthur Mercer’s charter expires in twelve hours!”
“Julian Vance believes you are an impoverished domestic cleaner who will spend tonight packing up a broom in a borrowed car.”
