The structure, to Riley’s eye, looked more like a barn than Bran’s house, but it made the point. So did the curved lines, the squiggles to represent garden paths, shrubs, trees, the cliff wall.

And as far as she could tell, he had everything in its place, and nearly to scale.

“We started here.” He used first initials—and an SK for Sawyer—to note positions. “Annika shifted here, Bran here.” Now he used dotted lines to note the change in positions, for each. And again until he laid them out when Riley had been tossed.

“How do you know where everyone moved, during the thick of it?” Sasha demanded.

“I know where my people are.”

Studying the diagram, Riley leaned closer. “Impressive. And assuming this is accurate—and I do,” she added before Doyle could snap at her—“it illustrates how easily she drew us apart. Bran—magick man—is the full length of the field from my position when I hit my ass. Whatever she thinks of the rest of us, she respects power, his power. Sawyer’s closer, but again, pulled way back. Lowers the chances of him pulling out the compass, getting me out of there.”

“Sasha is back against the wall above the sea.”

“And facing away. I was facing away. That was probably deliberate, too.”

“I was closer, but . . .” Annika looked at Doyle. “She would think me stronger in the sea than on the land. Yes?”

“She’d be wrong, but yes.”

“And you, here, closer than all but me. But still far. It helps to see it like this, like a picture. Can you draw what we should have done? The positions?”

Doyle smiled at her. “Yeah. The thing is, those positions have to be flexible. You have to react in the moment. You could take a hit, or need to move to help someone else. But.”

As Doyle sketched out, explained, battlefield strategy, Riley rose to get another drink, watched Sawyer finish rubbing his herbs and garlic—and she thought maybe mustard—over the big rack of lamb.

“That smells really good.”

“A couple of hours in this?” He slid the rack into a huge plastic bag, poured olive oil over it. “It’ll taste even better,” he promised as he turned the bag to coat the meat.

“She conned us.” He said it to Riley, then repeated it for the others. “Nerezza conned us, and so we underestimated her. Lesson learned.”

“This has value.” Bran gestured to the sketches. “And so will the drills I believe Doyle will exhaust us with.”

“Starting now.”

“Now?” Riley nearly choked on the olive she’d popped in her mouth. “Been drinking,” she pointed out.

“And if an attack came now, you’d have been drinking. We need to know how to break off into teams. We’ve been over that, but it went to hell today. So we drill.”

“How long before you have to deal with the rest of that meal you’re making?” Bran asked Sawyer.

“I’ve got an hour.”

“An hour then.” He pushed to his feet, pulled Sasha to hers. “Then I need an hour of my own with the painting.”

They drilled. Riley hated to admit Doyle was right, but they needed to. Maybe it was weird to think—and feel—battles with evil forces had become a kind of routine, but as she’d nearly had her ass handed to her, she had to admit that as part of the issue.

She’d gotten sloppy, and she hadn’t been alone.

When he called it, she slipped off. Not to hit the books, but to give in to recovery. She stretched out on the sofa in the tower library, fire snapping, and took a much-needed nap.

Refreshed, she wandered back into the kitchen, and into the marvelous scents of roasted meat and potatoes.

“Good timing,” Sawyer told her. “Lamb’s resting. We eat in ten.”

Glancing over, she noted Annika had already set the table. She’d fashioned a bride and groom out of salt and pepper mills, draping a train of white linen for Sasha, creating a bow tie out of a black ribbon for Bran. She’d even created an arbor of flowers over them.

“Sweet,” Riley declared.

“She is that. I thought aquamarine.”

“Huh?”

“For a ring. For Anni.”

“Oh. Because it represents the sea. Nice, Sawyer.”

“I don’t suppose you know where I can get one—the stone. Just the stone. I’m thinking Sasha could help me design a ring, and maybe Bran could . . .” He wiggled his fingers.

Sweet, she thought again. “I’ll make some calls.”

• • •

They had their celebratory meal, with the bridal tablescape and champagne. Doyle might’ve preferred beer, but he figured some moments deserved the sparkle.

They didn’t talk of war but of wedding, and as a man who’d lived lifetimes as a soldier, he knew there were moments as well to put the blood and the battles aside and give over to love and life.

He might not have had much to say about either, but his companions didn’t appear to need him, as conversation never lagged.

“Would you marry me here?” Bran asked. “When the stars are returned, and our lives are our own again?”

“Here? I can’t think of a more perfect or beautiful place. My mother—”

“We’ll bring her over, and my family will come in droves, believe me.”

“Móraí.” The idea delighted Annika. “I can show her the scarves I’ve made. But . . .”