Page 105 of When the Sky Breaks

“She came later,” Ansel lied seamlessly. “I work in import/export now. Wine mostly. Some cheese. We’re going to France for a research trip.”

Neal raised an eyebrow. He still hadn’t dropped his hand from my waist.

“My business partner.” Ansel gestured vaguely in Neal’s direction. “Now I will go ask the steward for different seats. And we will both go our separate ways. You with my sincerest apologies.”

We settled into our new seats, though Guinevere had not stopped glaring from across the room. Ansel brushed it all off to the steward with a couple throwaway sentences about “old romantic entanglements.”

“So, Ansel,” I asked, “care to elaborate on that little display?”

“Not particularly,” Ansel replied, suddenly deeply interested in his soup.

“I could pull rank on you,” I suggested, “or you could just tell me. See, if someone’s going around accusing us of sleeping together? I think I deserve details.”

Neal meanwhile was locked in a highly detailed conversation with the steward, trying to figure out what—if anything—he could find me to eat that wasn’t liable to come back up near immediately.

“Guinevere was a mistake,” Ansel said simply. “I took a break from working directly with your father for a few years, when you were a baby, and he was still in Scotland, and everything was going disarmingly smoothly. No bad blood between us. It was just a sabbatical. I went to the Continent. I spent a few years learning about the awful folk demons out far east in the Carpathians. And I met Guinevere. In Paris. We liked each other well enough. And the dowry was substantial. So I figured it couldn’t hurt to marry her. You know how many matches aren’t about affection at all. Hell your marriage wasn’t about affection at the beginning. But the night before the wedding I got a telegram from your dad. Your mom had died. He’d lost his bloody mind with grief. He needed me. And so I left. Put a note for her in the church. And never spoke to her again.”

“You came back to Santa Fe when my mom died?” I asked.

“But we didn’t meet,” Ansel said. “You were grieving. You were what? Seven? Eight years old? But someone had to keep the Court running. Someone needed to at least try and convince your father to come back to civilization. Glen was overwhelmed. So I came.”

“I’d say I’m sorry we took you away from her but . . .” I trailed off.

“Don’t be,” Ansel said. “In an awful sort of way it was the best thing that ever happened to me. Got me back where I belonged. And away from Guinevere.”

“Who now thinks you’re a cheese merchant,” I said.

“So it would seem,” Ansel replied.

Neal finally sat down, and the steward placed a bowl of carrot soup in front of me.

I glanced at him. “Safe?”

“You’re good,” he said in reply, finally getting to eat his own dinner.

“So do we need to pretend you know a lot about wine and cheese now?” I asked while they ate.

“Probably,” Ansel admitted.

“I actually do know a lot about wine and cheese,” Neal offered. “Surprising what you learn training with some of the more self-important noble families.”

Forty-Four

Neal

It was nearing ten o’clock and I could feel Sorcha fading. She’d eaten a full meal, always a good sign. And she didn’t actively look like she was going to vomit at the table.

“I’m going to go track down someone to get our room ready,” I said, getting up. “What will settle your stomach before bed?”

“Peppermint if they have it, chamomile if not,” Sorcha said, squeezing my hand. “Thank you!”

I went to step away from the table and immediately caught myself, after nearly tripping on yet another of the ship’s cats. This one was smaller, a tortoiseshell, and meowing loudly.

“On second thought,” I said taking Sorcha’s arm, “you come with me. Take the cat. We don’t need any more attention.”

She suppressed a laugh.

“You safe if we leave you here, or worried Guinevere’s going to accost you?” she asked Ansel.