Mr. Scotch doesn’t even acknowledge me when I set his drink on the table next to his chosen chair. Well, at least he’s not peering at me and picking out some flaw in my illusion.
A quiet summons brings the staff back to the bar to collect trays of hors d’oeuvres we cart around for the patrons to graze from. As I’m returning with a second tray after emptying the first, animated voices from the front of the building catch my attention.
Grady Tadros and a few other Luminary students—present and a couple of recent grads, I think—have just swaggered in. They swing into the lounge area to snatch several appetizers.
One of them raises his eyebrows at the others and rustles his pocket with a faint click. “I got the good stuff.”
Grady grins. “Brilliant. Lead the way.”
The liquor behind the bar looked plenty “good”—better than anything I could have afforded in my old life—so I doubt they’re talking about a drink. Maybe whatever it is will loosen their tongues and I’ll hear something interesting.
I stroll up to the second floor a careful distance behind them, just near enough to see which of the smaller rooms upstairs they head into. A few snorts and a buoyant laugh heighten my suspicions about what sort of substance they’re getting into.
I pause outside the door they’ve left ajar, ears pricked.
More laughter carries through the room. One of the guys makes a disparaging remark about Professor Kwong. Another starts talking about a drab “chick” he hooked up with the previous night.
A grimace tugs at my lips—and a throat clears just behind me.
I whirl around to see Byron standing a few feet away, his eyebrows slightly arched. “Did you lose your way?”
For a second, my mind scrambles. Then I remember he isn’t seeing Elodie Devine but a random club employee.
I still have to grope for a suitable excuse. “I was going to see if they wanted any refreshments brought up.”
Byron’s gaze flicks toward the doorway. The disdainful curl of his lip suggests he’s perfectly aware of what our schoolmates are up to. “I don’t think they need more than they’ve already got.”
I push my own mouth into a prim smile. “I find it’s best not to make assumptions about the members’ needs.”
Byron’s expression turns oddly pensive. Did I let a little edge creep into that last statement, or did my vocal illusion waver?
“What’s your name?” he asks.
My throat goes dry. “Chuck.”
He studies me for another torturous moment and then tips his head toward one of the other second-floor rooms. “Join me for cards, Chuck. I came up to play, and no one else is here yet.”
Entertaining the patrons in whatever way they wish is probably in my job description, but I balk instinctively. “Sir?”
Byron is already turning as if assuming I’m going to follow. “I won’t make you gamble whatever they pay you here. We can play without stakes. Do you have a preference about the game?”
My mouth opens and closes and opens again, but no excuse comes to me that will extract me from this situation without getting fake-Chuck fired—and banned from uncovering any more information on the premises.
My Byron never showed any interest in card games after we matched. Maybe it’s a hobby he developed in the past few years—or one he cultivated in this reality but not in mine.
What’s a reasonably genteel sort of game to suggest? I don’t think he’ll approve of Crazy Eights or Go Fish.
The words tumble out. “How about Euchre?”
He glances back at me with a tick of his eyes—surprised by the suggestion? But it’s the only non-childish game I know.
Well, I was a child when Mom taught me. I still remember her soft shake of her head and the nostalgic cast that came over her face.“This was my grandfather’s favorite game.”
She got all closed-lipped right after that, as if she felt she’d slipped up by mentioning it. But even though she never mentioned that grandfather again, I insisted on playing Euchre with her over and over across the years, as if I might learn more about her background through some weird kind of osmosis.
Did my great-grandfather learn it from friends he met in this country? Or maybe some generations back, Mom’s family lived in the UK like Byron’s did.
More mysteries that went cold long ago.
