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“My bloodline is mostly criminals and emotional constipation.”

“True.”

I adjust one of the candles.

Edward slaps my hand.

“Stop touching things.”

“I am improving the atmosphere.”

“You are moving the same candle two inches at a time.”

“It was leaning.”

“It is wax.”

Alcott snorts as Edward gives him a betrayed look. “Do not encourage him.”

“I am attempting not to, but he is very committed.”

I step back, hands on my hips, “There is still something missing.”

Edward immediately looks alarmed. “No.”

“You do not even know what I mean.”

“I know your face.”

“My face is full of wonder.” He gestures to himself proudly.

“Your face is full of bad ideas.”

Alcott tilts his head. “He is right, though. Something is missing.”

He mutters something unflattering, then Alcott moves to the gramophone.

“No,” Edward says at once.

Alcott pauses. “What?”

“Not that piece.”

“I have not chosen one.”

“You were going to choose the dramatic one.”

Alcott’s mouth opens, then Edward points at him. “Do not lie.”

Alcott closes his mouth.

I cross to the record cabinet. “Something dark, but not despairing. Romantic, but not nauseating. Elegant, but with enough menace to honor the occasion.”

Edward frowns. “The occasion is not Jack losing his head.”

“No,” I agree. “The occasion is Olive gaining us.”

That quiets him. Alcott stills too. For a moment, the room softens around us. That is what tonight is, really. Not an anniversary of blood. We have had enough blood. Tonight is the anniversary since the four of us stood in a workshop over the severed head of a monster and somehow found the first thread of a life none of us had known how to want. Olive had walked in furious and magnificent. Edward had looked at her as if his soul had recognized its own missing language. Alcott had been fascinated, while I had been half-drunk, fully grieving, and absolutely certain this woman was going to ruin us. I was correct and gloriously so.