“Right now, I’m just teaching him the history of the Abracadantès and a few basic spells. Elementary stuff. The Ten Precepts. How to build a grimoire. That kind of thing.”
“But you must be demonstrating the spells first. Anyway, isn’t that splitting hairs?”
I sighed my exasperation. It’s so annoying when people who disagree with you are right. “Yes. And yes. And no, John doesn’t know that I’m training Ambrose in witchcraft.”
Her hazel eyes were sympathetic. But she also thought I’d brought this on myself by promising John not to use Craft. And she was right about that too. “Do you think grand-mère is dangerous?”
“Hell to the yeah, grand-mère is dangerous. If she could have killed me, she would have. I don’t know if she poses a threat to mortals, but she sure as heck poses a threat to anyone Craft who crosses her path.”
“But that’s not likely, right? Surely, she doesn’t go out. Does she?”
“I have no idea what she does or doesn’t do. For all I know she has a regular gig performing magic tricks at the senior center. I’m ashamed to admit, I didn’t give it much thought until now. I figured it was something Ambrose should be able to work out on his own, but this is not easily managed. I’m going to ask the Duchess if she has any ideas.”
“Has she ever not had an idea?” Andi said dryly.
“True.”
Andi licked a glittering sprinkle off her fingertip. “Speaking of your mother, I saw Phelon on Tuesday. He was having dinner at Gary Danko’s.”
Phelon Penn is one of Maman’s Cavalier King Charles Spaniels. I’m sorry. Did I say that aloud? Phelon Penn is my mother’s former companion. Like the other Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, he was the perfect lapdog and cost a fortune in grooming supplies.
“Was he alone?”
“No.”
“Was he with a woman?”
“Yes.”
I smiled and reached for the Neptune’s Nibble.
Chapter Three
“Hey! It’s John, isn’t it?” Our waiter—a dark-haired guy in his thirties with big blue eyes and a boyish grin—beamed in recognition.
John glanced at him, did a double take, glanced at me. “That’s right,” he said with an un-John-like brightness. “Lance, right? Lance, this is my husband, Cosmo.”
Lance also glanced at me. His face didn’t exactly fall, but he was clearly disappointed. “Husband?” he repeated. “Gosh. I didn’t see that coming.”
“Oh, are you psychic?” I inquired.
John cleared his throat.
“Hm?” Lance spared me another distracted look—he was having trouble tearing his gaze from John.
I opened my mouth, but John spoke over me in that fake-hearty voice, “But come he did!”
I smiled at him. “Many times,” I said. “Many, many times.”
John turned the color of his beloved Pinot Noir.
“Ohhhhkay, then!” Lance said. “I’ll just get that wine list, shall I?” He sprinted away.
“Gosh. I didn’t see that coming,” I said to John.
He laughed, shook his head chidingly. “Lance was a long time ago.”
“I should hope.”
He reached across the table, lightly traced my ring finger and the platinum Celtic eternity knot wedding band. “I don’t remember how many Lances there were, but there’s only one you.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Spoken like a true romantic.”
It was John’s turn to laugh.
Actually, he was a romantic. I didn’t realize it at first—and he would have denied it. But so it was. It was one of a number of things I had initially gotten wrong about John. Like assuming he was a snob. That wasn’t really fair. John didn’t care about price tags or name brands. He simply wanted the best he could afford, whether in ties or wines or swimming pool liners. It wasn’t anything to do with compensating for growing up poor or being ambitious or trying to impress people with his worldly goods. John was a pragmatist, pure and simple.
He believed in doing things right the first time. He believed in paying for quality because it eliminated waste, improved efficiency, and cost less in the long run.
That said, he did care about appearances. Optics.
Not always. Not above all else. Though Mayor Stevens had pushed hard for my arrest when I had been suspected of murdering Seamus Reitherman, John had not postponed our wedding, let alone—as you might expect—ended our engagement. In fact, I found out later, he had threatened to resign as commissioner if I was arrested.
But he felt it was important to be seen at the right places doing the right things. We attended a lot of high-profile social events out of duty rather than enjoyment, and a couple of nights a week we dined out at expensive restaurants where there was a very good chance our photo would end up in the next day’s papers.
Which is what we were doing at Izzy’s Steakhouse in the Marina District on Friday night. The original Izzy’s had been a Barbary Coast saloon legendary for its thick, juicy steaks and Prohibition hooch. The current incarnation offered a highbrow take on the classic model: dark wood and deep booths, a cozy fireplace and specialty cocktails. At least Izzy’s was actually one of John’s favorite places, and once we’d got our drinks and meals were ordered, I could see him slowly relaxing under the soothing influence of soft lights, a second glass of wine, and piano jazz.
I relaxed too. It had been a long and fraught day, but sitting here with John put everything into perspective again.
“Have you spoken to Jinx yet?” I asked when I’d finished giving him the abbreviated version of my day’s activities.
“No.”
That surprised me because John is not one for putting off today what he’d have done three days ago if he’d known about it.
I must have looked my surprise because he said, “We’ve been getting along okay these last couple of months. I’m not looking forward to blowing it all up.”
“Do you have to blow it up? Isn’t there a way to talk to her without it turning into a confrontation?”
“No. Not about something like this. Regardless of how I put it, the words I choose, my tone, my expression, she’s going to look at this as me challenging her right to live her own life the way she chooses.”
He was probably right. Largely because, for most of the time I’d known John, he’d done that very thing to Jinx. Their truce was fragile. And yet, I knew they did love each other.
“You’re just asking for a name, right?”
“That would be the starting point,” John agreed. Or sort of agreed.
I watched him for a moment. “Why don’t I ask her?”
His brows drew into a straight, forbidding line.
I persisted, “After all, the envelope came to me. It was intended for me. That’s something she ought to know.”
“I wasn’t planning to withhold anything,” John said.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” I was only half teasing. I waited, sipping my Automne en Normandie cocktail. According to the drinks menu, a sweetly tart concoction of Laird’s apple brandy, Granny Smith apple, honey syrup, and a splash of fresh lemon juice. Strong enough to knock Snow White on her ass, for sure.