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Edward looks at the candles. “She will think it is too much.”

“Good,” I say. “She deserves too much.”

His gaze shifts to me. I hold it.

“Edward,” I say softly, “the point is not that she enjoy the evening correctly.”

He looks down.

“The point is that she knows we remembered.”

Alcott’s voice is quieter than usual. “And that there are dates now that belong to something other than pain.”

Edward exhales. Then nods once.

“Fine.”

A crash comes from the kitchen. All three of us go still.

Then a maid shouts, “The bird!”

Edward closes his eyes. “No.”

I am already moving. Thanatos is in the kitchen but by the time we reach him, the vulture stands proudly atop the counter with an entire string of sausages in his beak, wings half-open, eyes bright with conquest. Morrigan sits on the floor below him, looking deeply uninvolved for a creature who almost certainly assisted. Alcott stops beside me.

“Well,” he says, “at least someone is enjoying the preparations.”

Edward points at Thanatos. “Drop those.”

Thanatos stares as Edward points harder. The vulture swallows one sausage whole. As I press a hand to my mouth to stifle a chuckle.

Edward turns to me. “Do not laugh.”

“I would never.”

Edward lunges for the sausages as Thanatos flaps his enormous wings. The remaining sausage string swings through the air like a weapon. Alcott ducks. I miss the memo. A sausage strikes me across the face, then silence until Alcott makes a sound I have never heard from him. A giggle, an adorable true giggle. While Edward freezes mid-battle and I stand very still, sausage grease on my cheek, dignity dead at my feet as Alcott laughs harder. Edward tries not to, then proceeds to fail. I cannot help but join in on the laughter. Thanatos drops the sausage string and screams triumphantly. Morrigan steals one and disappears beneath the table we so foolishly left in the hallway.

“This,” Edward says, breathless with laughter, “is exactly why I said no vultures in kitchens.”

“He wanted to contribute,” I say.

We are almost finished when Elisa’s carriage arrives. Panic is an ugly term. I prefer artistic urgency. Edward calls it panic.

“Lights,” he says.

“They are lit,” Alcott replies.

“Food?”

“Present.” Alcott remarks.

“Wine?”

“Unstolen.” I mutter.

“Animals?”

We all look toward the courtyard. Thanatos stares back through the glass, exiled and offended. Morrigan sits beside him, licking one paw.