“Now that I’ve conceded that point, the wedding. When are you going to stop living in sin?”

“This is rich, coming from you. I’m sorry, how many wives did you have?”

“Recently, only one.”

“Yes, and you murdered her.”

The waiter valiantly clutched onto his stack of small appetizer plates.

Roland sighed. “Let’s not talk about that again.”

“She was my mother.”

The waiter nearly dropped the onions.

“Yes, and I loved her deeply.”

The waiter set the last plate on the table and paused. “May I take your order?”

“French fries with cheese,” Julie said.

“I don’t care,” I said.

“Bring me some meat,” Curran said.

My father turned to the waiter. “The child’s order stands, with the addition of a Shirley Temple. My daughter prefers Baja tacos, shrimp sautéed not fried, hold the onion and bring her a blackberry iced tea with extra lemon. My future son-in-law enjoys lamb, medium rare, no pepper, baked potato with butter and salt, no sour cream, and a Newcastle Werewolf, although he will settle for a Brown Ale or a Blue Moon. I’ll take a bourbon steak and a glass of red.”

The waiter almost saluted before taking off.

My father had us watched. Not just followed, but observed thoroughly enough to know I picked cooked onions out of my food.

“Now if we could all stop pretending to be lesser versions of ourselves, I believe this conversation will flow much easier.” Roland dipped his pretzel into beer sauce.

“Okay. How many spies do you have in our territory?”

“Enough.” Roland smiled. “I can’t help it. It’s the lot of a parent. Even when our children don’t want us in their lives, we can’t help but watch from afar and stand ready to protect and render aid.”

Watch from afar . . . Interesting.

“You didn’t answer my question about your wedding.”

I leaned back. “Why does it matter to you?”

“Consider me old-fashioned,” he said. “People talk. People ask when or if there will be a formal union.”

“Who are these people?”

“D’Ambray,” Curran said.

“How is the Preceptor?” I asked.

“I haven’t seen him.” My father shrugged. “He is taking a sort of a sabbatical. A journey to find himself.”

“Was that his idea or yours?” Curran asked.

“A bit of both.”

The waiter appeared with our drinks, cleared the empty plates, and vanished.

Hugh had been exiled as a punishment for his failure. “And while he’s on this sabbatical, you have complete deniability. You can’t be held responsible for whatever crazy crap he pulls off while he’s in exile. How convenient.”

“It is rather convenient, isn’t it?” Roland smiled.

Argh.

“Your continuous insistence on keeping your options open is causing a stir,” Roland said. “Don’t get me wrong, the elaborate plotting is highly amusing, but this Judeo-Christian age does come with some stricter conventions. It’s evident in the language. ‘Living in sin,’ ‘make an honest woman,’ ‘shacking up’—the implication of that last one, of course, being that you are too poor to get married and so must live in a shack. It isn’t a matter of money, by the way, is it?”

“Stop,” I growled.

“I understand you’ve been burning through your reserves,” Roland said.

Oh no. He didn’t.

Curran took a swallow of his beer. “Your spies have been falling short. We didn’t burn through our money. We shifted our cash reserve into real estate holdings. Currency falls and becomes devalued, but land will always retain its value. They don’t make any more of it. However, if you find yourself short on cash, let us know. We can liquidate some of our holdings on short notice.”

Ha! Shots fired.

“I’ll be sure to keep it in mind. I don’t mean to nag. I simply want to walk you down the aisle, Kate.”

Be civil, be civil, be civil . . . “No.” There. Good.

“What if there is a child?” Roland asked.

“So?” Where was he going with this?

“You don’t want your children to be bastards, Kate. It never turns out well.”

I put my head on the table. It was that or physical violence.

The food arrived. I picked up one of my Baja tacos and ate it out of desperation. I needed fuel to continue this conversation.