My stomach sinks.
Three forks on the left. Two spoons on the right. Plus the butter knife resting on the bread plate at an exact forty-five-degree angle.
Draco’s eaten with forks and spoons for nearly two years, but before that, in Rome? Bread was his spoon, and knives were for the arena, not table manners. This setup—this choreography of silver—isn’t his terrain. And my parents know it.
It's a test. A blatant, obvious test designed to make Draco fumble so they can judge him as uncultured and inappropriate for their daughter.
"Beautiful table, Mrs. Pembroke.” Draco breaks the awkward silence.
Mother blinks, clearly expecting more reaction. "Thank you. We thought a proper dinner service would be appropriate."
"Of course." He picks up his napkin and places it in his lap with practiced ease. Under the table, his foot finds mine—a brief touch of solidarity.
The first course arrives: butternut squash soup in delicate bowls. I watch Draco from the corner of my eye as he selects the correct spoon without hesitation—the larger one on the right—and waits for Mother to begin before taking his first taste.
"Delicious," he says after a moment.
Mother's expression sharpens. She's already frustrated that he hasn't made an obvious mistake. "So, Draco. Charity mentioned you're aperformer?"
The word drips with subtle disdain. I grip my soup spoon tighter.
"That's right." Draco's voice remains pleasant. "I specialize in close-up magic. Sleight of hand, mostly."
"How… entertaining." Father's tone suggests it's anything but. "And you make a living from this?"
"I do well enough." Draco meets his gaze steadily. "Magic is about creating wonder. People are willing to pay for moments that remind them the world is more mysterious than it seems."
"But surely that's not a sustainable career path," Mother says. "What are your long-term plans?"
A muscle jumps in Draco’s jaw—small, quick, the only crack in his calm. Not anger. Not aggression. Just that flash of Roman, honed-for-survival instinct that rises whenever someone judges worth by status or pedigree.
The tension bleeds from his expression as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the composed politeness he’s been wearing like armor all evening. When he answers, his voice is steady—measured—but now I can hear something underneath it. Resolve.
The interrogation has begun. I set down my spoon, appetite gone.
"I'm working on developing a touring show," Draco says smoothly. "There's growing interest in intimate magic performances—less Vegas spectacle, more art form. I've been approached by several venues about performances."
It's partially true—he has been talking about expanding beyond street performances. But the way he phrases it makes it sound more established thanit is.
"Interesting," Father says in a tone that means the opposite. "And your family? What do they think of your chosen profession?"
The question lands like a trap. I know exactly what Father's fishing for—pedigree, connections, evidence of respectability.
Draco doesn't hesitate. "My family's no longer in the picture. I'm on my own."
The admission should make him seem less suitable. Instead, something flickers in Mother's expression—not quite sympathy, but maybe recognition that he's survived without a safety net.
"That must be difficult," she says carefully.
"It teaches you what matters." Draco picks up his wine glass—the correct one, the larger crystal for red—and takes a measured sip. "You learn who you are when you don't have name or money to hide behind."
The barb is subtle enough that Father doesn't react, but I catch it. So does Mother, if the tightening around her mouth is any indication.
The soup course is cleared. Salads arrive—delicate arrangements of micro-greens and edible flowers that probably cost more than Draco makes in a week. He selects the outermost fork—the salad fork—and continues eating with perfect composure.
"Tell us how you and Charity met," Mother says. Her voice is light, conversational, but I hear the steel underneath.
This is the question I've been dreading. We never coordinated our stories. Never decided what version of the truth to tell.
