“I borrowed it from the countess,” she said with a shrug. “I saw you both looming over here, and inspiration struck. Who knows what happened to the old one. Probably rusting in Covent Garden’s rain gutters.”
“Or under one of Matthew’s chairs,” Roland suggested, spurring another round of stifled laughter.
She sighed, watching Ambrose move through the crowd and approach Mae, evidently asking for Vix’s own whereabouts.
“We’re not done talking about this,” she told Roland as Ambrose turned and saw her, raising a hand and moving to approach. “But it will sit for now.”
“Ugh,” said Roland, pushing back from the table in search of a nearby exit. “I fancy some fresh air, anyhow.”
He vanished into the crowd as Ambrose approached, grinning and glinting with exertion.
“There you are,” he boomed, closing the distance between them with two fresh glasses of sparkling champagne. “My beautiful wife. Where did you run off to?”
“A few places,” she answered, accepting the cool glass from his hand and smiling up at him. “You look positively flushed.”
“I haven’t danced in a long time,” he admitted, leaning against the table to sip at his own glass. “Quite a long time, and certainly not that many in a row. I forgot how enjoyable it could be.”
“You are very elegant,” she acknowledged. “Perhaps you told me true when you said you were good at everything.”
He scoffed. “Of course I did.”
“Yes,” she said, tilting her head to the side. “You always tell the truth. I wanted to ask you to take a walk with me outside, but I’m afraid Roland has beat us to the chase.”
“We still could,” said Ambrose. “He can’t inhabit the whole of the outdoors.”
Vix tittered. “Can’t he?”
Ambrose considered it. “I suppose if my mother can inhabit the whole of the indoors, it is possible. You know we haven’t actually gotten rid of her as easily as one skirmish of a conversation? She will likely linger around London, planning a new flanking attack or three before she retreats back to Kent.”
“Let her,” said Vix with a shrug. “We have faced worse.”
“Well, now, don’t tell her that,” he replied with a chuckle. “She will demand to know who could possibly be more formidable. Oh! Speaking of which, shall we go slay your headmistress? I think I saw some javelins over a fireplace in the foyer.”
“Already done,” Vix told him, grinning. “Well, already attempted, anyway. It did not go as planned.”
“Oh?” Ambrose said, looking a little wounded. “How dare you slay monsters without your accomplice. Tell me everything.”
“It was absolutely not a slaying. I will confess to that,” she said, tipping more champagne into her mouth. “Perhaps a taming? No, not that either; she is still a feral old beast. It wasn’t quite a befriending either.”
“A truce?” Ambrose suggested, his pale brows high on his forehead. “An accord?”
“Yes, maybe that,” Vix said, tapping her nail against the rim of the glass. “An accord. How very odd and unsatisfying, hm?”
“Odd and unsatisfying,” he echoed, giving her half a smile. “The curse of being.”
It made her smile back. “Indeed. Speaking of which, I would like to reattempt my confession from earlier. I demand you forget the first attempt.”
“Oh, she demands it?” Ambrose said, setting his empty glass to the side and crossing his arms. “What if I refuse?”
“I shall pluck it from your memory while you sleep,” she said sternly, “and feed it to Bear.”
“You wouldn’t,” he said with a little gasp. “That is a violation of the highest order.”
“I would,” she told him. “I would do it now if you’d hold still.”
He shook his head. “Absolutely not. I shall forever cherish being told I am loved in the same tone of voice in which someone is told to get out of the road before they are trampled by oxen. It is precious to me. You cannot have it back.”
“Ambrose!” she cried, drawing her brows together. “I can do better. I insist upon it. In fact, we should return to the originalconfession from you, so that I may respond appropriately in good time.”
