Page 30 of Under Arthur’s Protection

Gwen looked between us. “New York Thanksgiving? Is that different from normal Thanksgiving?”

“It was different from the Thanksgiving in Miami in 2014, when she roasted half a pig,” Lance said. “And definitely different from the one in London in 2018, when she added Yorkshire puddings.”

Gwen opened her mouth. Not a yawn this time—probably to ask why we celebrated Thanksgiving in so many places.

“We traveled a lot,” I said, wanting to gag Lance. “Hettie did this thing where she’d carve the meat at the table with a commentary. Play-by-play, like a sports announcer. ‘And the left drumstick is looking nervous, folks.’”

Lance grinned. “She made your father laugh. That alone was worth the trip.”

It was true. My father didn’t laugh often, but Hettie pulled it out of him. She did it without trying, which was probably why it worked. My mother always said Hettie was good to me because she was more grounded than the rest of the world around me.

“She passed a few years ago.” I tapped my chest, reminding my heart not to squeeze too much over the memory of her funeral. “But the recipe’s still in here.”

“She was a force,” Lance said quietly. “Tiny woman. Absolutely terrifying.”

“She was not terrifying.”

“She threw a potato at me once.”

“You deserved it.”

Gwen laughed, and my heart squeezed again.

She’s a client. Finish the pasta.

I checked the noodles. They were almost ready. “Lance, can you grab the plates and forks?”

He slid off his stool. “Do you want your mum’s blue china with the little cornflower pattern, the handmade ones she puts the fruit displays in, or should I scrounge for paper plates?”

“Use the white ones in that cabinet.” I pointed behind him and Gwen.

“Boring.”

“Functional.”

He set three plates and forks on the island and settled back onto his stool beside Gwen. “So what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“It depends on what Gwen needs.” I pulled the pasta from the pot with tongs just before it was al dente and dropped it into the saucepan along with some starchy water. The water and oil came together as I tossed the noodles through. Another splash, and I kept tossing until the sauce clung to every strand instead of pooling at the bottom.

Hettie would have told me the tomatoes were underripe, but they were imported, and I hadn’t been the one who’d bought them.

“I need to see the carvings in person,” Gwen said. “I’m hoping there’s more text hidden in the shadows that will help me figure out what’s written on the sword’s pommel.”

I plated Lance’s first, twirled a portion with the tongs, and finished with an extra drizzle of the Umbrian oil.

“St. Catherine’s is a small building.” I’d pulled up the floor plan and pictures on the jet. Single nave, a tower arch, not much else. It was located in Temple and was called Temple Church by some. My father had likely taken me there when I was younger, to visit the site where the Templars had worshiped centuries ago. I couldn’t distinguish it from the hundred other places where I’d stood listening to him tell me how important our lineage was. “How long do you need inside?”

“A few hours? I want to photograph everything and compare the carvings against the sword. Maybe see if there’s any additional documentation, and check the outbuildings, as well.” She put up a hand to decline the pasta when I offered. “I’m not actually hungry.”

I cocked an eyebrow at her. When she’d first come into the kitchen, she’d accepted the bread from me, and her whole body had sagged as she ate it. She wasn’t going to leave without tasting this.

“Okay,” she said with a smile. “Just a small plate.”

I gave her a plate that wasn’t quite small, but she didn’t argue.

“One of us will stay inside with you, one outside,” I said, leaning against the counter across from them with my own plate. “We rotate every thirty minutes so neither of us goes stale. The church sits off a narrow lane with heavy tree cover on the south and east sides. Hard to see from the road, which is good for privacy but bad for monitoring approaches.”

Lance nodded and spoke around a mouthful of pasta. “Who takes first interior?”