“But you do have Dolan. Do you have reason to doubt his sensory awareness?”
“No. I didn’t know we were relying on Dolan’s, um, sensory awareness. You mean because he identified the hobknobbit thing as questionable?”
“As a recent example. Yes. His assessments have proven reliable. And why would you worry?”
“Well, for one thing, I don’t want the shop or my associates brought to ruin.”
Esmerelda treated me to a rare laugh. “Rita. Your gift for overstatement is exquisite.”
“Think so? That was toned down. Maggie used the word ‘doom’.”
Esme waved that off as she shook her head. “Well, Maggie is Maggie.”
“I don’t know how to argue with that. But doom trumps ruin. Unfortunate might be the destruction of the Hallows’ workroom. Tragedy might be the end of the shop. Ruin might destroy Hallow Hill. Doom could mean the destruction of all Britain.”
She cocked her head. “You’ve thought this through, have you?”
“Um. Not really?”
“Surprising. I was expecting that next you’d be pulling a color-coded catastrophe chart with graphs out of your bag.”
Esme was mistress of whipping up spontaneous word salads with snark so thick it could hang in the air for hours.
“What would you know about charts and graphs?” I knew better than to banter with Esmerelda, but I was often hairbrained enough to blurt out a retort without due consideration.
She was nonplussed. Of course. “From what I understand of recent developments, you have enough to fret over without adding artifact anxiety to the mix.”
That could only mean the gossip mill was churning. “You heard about the…”
“Succession. Yes.”
“Possible succession.”
“Ogre dung. It’s a fait accompli.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“Well, that’s confirmation enough for me.” I thought I saw a ghost of a smile. “Okay. Later.”
“Yes. I’ll be there for lunch.”
“Oh. You’re coming today? Good. See you then.”
CHAPTER THREE Joy to the Juiced
I was unwinding my Burberry-like scarf as I entered my kitchen.
“Wow, Olivia. You may have outdone yourself today.” I was referring to the heavenly smells that filled the house.
She smiled. “You say that every day.”
I chuckled. “It’s not schmooze. I say that because it’s what I’m thinking. What is it?”
“Lamb loin smothered in onions and peppercorn sauce. Braised asparagus tips. Whipped potatoes. Personal baguettes.”
“Baguettes? That French bread that explodes, sending crumbs everywhere when you touch it?”
She smiled indulgently. “Yes. I suppose it does that. But it’s good. Your guests like it. And I will tidy up. Of course.”
I looked down at my black knit sweater and decided to change into something light-colored with a tight silky weave that crumbs wouldn’t cling to.
“Thanks for the heads up.”
“Okay,” she said.
That was when I noticed the table was set for seven. It was designed to seat six, but we could squeeze without much trouble.
“We have an extra today?”
“Fie asked to come just a bit ago. Is that okay?”
“Of course, Liv. You’re the one who bears the burden.”
I don’t know why Lochlan thought he had a prayer of keeping the transfer of the Irish crown under wraps. It was apparent that everybody knew. That being the case, no one could talk about anything else at lunch.
Fie turned to me just as I had half an individual-sized baguette sticking out of my mouth and asked, “What will you do if there’s a case involving the Irish and Diarmuid doesn’t comply?”
Rather than proceeding with biting off a hunk of bread, chewing, and swallowing while everyone was waiting and watching, I chose to back the baguette out of my mouth with as much ladylike grace as possible.
“I’m hoping it never comes to that, Fie. But I have confidence in my advisors and feel certain they’ll always help guide me to the best outcomes.”
“Brava,” Fie said. “That was as masterful a political statement as I’ve ever heard.” He turned to the others. “Call the press. She’s ready.”
“Are you making fun of me?” I asked him.
“Certainly not. I’d sooner cut off a finger than risk offending the host of Hallow Hill’s famed lunch salon.”
I laughed. “Lunch salon?”
At this point I rose impulsively to fetch wine from the cooler. Seven people. I grabbed two bottles and handed them to Keir wordlessly while Olivia, without being told, glided toward the crystal cabinet to retrieve seven wine glasses. We were like a team of telepaths. One mind. One goal – keep me out of trouble by turning on the happy spigot.
“Sure,” Fie continued. “Your lunches are famous for the best food in the world.” He glanced at Olivia to be sure she’d heard the compliment. “But your guests also talk about news and ideas.” As Olivia rose to clear plates and ready the table for dessert, Fie said, “This transfer of power is news. Definitely. And I’m curious about your thoughts.”
“Honestly, Fie, at this point anything we discuss is hypothetical. When we have more information about what this might mean,” I looked around the table, “to all of us, I’ll join in the discussion.”
“Promise?” he asked.
“Promise. What’s got you worried?”
“Upheaval.”
I nodded. “Nobody likes that. But let’s look on the bright side. I don’t imagine the Irish fae want war any more than anyone else.”
Everyone stopped stock still. After a very uncomfortable pause, Fie said, “War?”
Uh oh.
“Pay no attention to me.” I tried to cover. “I’m taking outlandish lessons from Maggie.”
When everyone laughed, I felt a huge sigh of relief that the red herring I’d
plunked onto the table had worked. Keir was the only person at lunch who knew there was an actual threat of actual war on the actual horizon. But he could be completely unreadable when he chose to be.
This was yet another good reason, among many, why it was lucky that I’d fallen for an officer of the court. If he was somebody else, I wouldn’t be able to freely share all the behind-the-scenes machinations necessary to make the wheel of justice turn in the right direction.
I took the bottle Keir had just opened and began to pour wine.
“We never have wine at lunch,” Fie observed.
I shrugged and smiled. “What’s the holiday season for if not wine at lunch?” I was eager to keep the conversation steered in a harmless direction, “Did anybody else notice that it snowed last night?”
I wasn’t above distracting people with divine juice and talk of weather.
There’d been a flaw in my plan to be sure. The problem with the wine part of wining and dining is that I’m as susceptible to the effects of the sacred grape as the next person, and probably much more so than magic kind.