His thoughtfulness was starting to get on my nerves.

Brochan emerged from the hallway in a black suit with a red pocket square. As he came closer, he gave me a once-over before minutely nodding—and then immediately tensed.

“I apologize, Miss Ironheart,” he murmured, veering to the side and turning, clasping his hands in front of him and looking straight ahead.

“For what?” I asked.

“Force of habit.”

“What’s a force of habit?”

Edgar lingered in the far corner, ready and waiting. Niamh was back by the fridge, hunting for food or beer. Everyone else was still getting ready for the day, their slow speed indicative of the danger they thought we’d run into.

I belatedly noticed that every single surface contained at least one cream-colored doily, all a little misshapen, none of them symmetrical. Edgar had apparently decorated, and it was clear he still couldn’t create the perfect doily. There was no way I was asking why he’d trucked all these here. Even though I’d taken Austin’s (many, many) ministrations to heart, and decided not to give in to my fear and worry, I was still on shaky ground with anxiety. I needed to stick with what I was good at—magic—and leave the political maneuverings for the rest of my team. The last thing I needed right now was to fall down the Edgar-weirdness rabbit hole. If anything could derail a person, that surely would.

“I haven’t been to a formal meetup since I was an alpha,” Brochan replied. “We lived in a rural place and didn’t dress up very often, so when we needed to, I had to check everyone to make sure they fit the requirements. I didn’t mean to do it with you.”

I waved his apology away. “I don’t care. Mr. Tom basically dresses me. He has oddly great taste. Hence this very fashionable pantsuit thing that is both striking and functional if we have to fight.”

“Yes, he does. You fit your part perfectly. If you’d allow me…” He paused, and I checked the time on my new watch, something else I’d plundered from the basket.

“Yes?” I answered when he didn’t continue.

“When you go to dinner tonight, wear expensive jewels. Based on the gift I received, these cats have a bunch of money.”

“What gifts did you receive?”

“A cashmere scarf and a lady’s Rolex. Very lovely.”

“And you’re not wearing them?”

“I might actually wear the scarf. It’s cream, so it’ll go with a formal jacket in the winter. The Rolex looks ridiculous on me. It’s much too small. I tried it.”

“I’ll trade you a man’s Rolex for the one you got, how’s that?”

His brows pinched together and he checked my wrist. “That’s not a Rolex, and it would also be too small for my wrist.” He held up his wrist and pulled back his sleeve. That thing was easily two of mine or more, his forearm lined with muscle and scars.

“I meant I’d buy you one and we’d switch,” I said.

“Oh. Right.” He shook his head. “I’m slow.”

Mr. Tom bustled out, checking all the sparkling surfaces and clucking his tongue at the doilies. A sour expression crossed his face. He’d cleaned last night with gusto, clearly determined to take back his role as provider of food and clean surfaces. Hopefully he didn’t also reprise his role as off-kilter life coach.

“Edgar, why must you clutter the space with these odd things?” Mr. Tom asked, whisking two doilies up.

“I figured we could all use a little taste of home,” Edgar answered. “A little comfort.”

“This is from your home, not ours, and the only thing comfortable about these misshapen things is the thought of throwing them in the fire.” Mr. Tom stacked up two more. Brochan looked on with a furrowed brow. He was new to the weird. It would probably be a bumpy ride as he got accustomed to it.

“An artist must not bend within the weight of misguided critique,” Edgar replied. “I must strive on, unfettered. The perfect doily is out there for me.”

Brochan’s brow scrunched further.

“Just ignore it,” I murmured to him, trying to follow my own advice. “Don’t try to understand it. It’ll give you brain bubbles.”

“Miss, do you need anything before you go?” Mr. Tom asked, paused halfway between me and the kitchen before pursing his lips at Niamh, her head still stuck in the large refrigerator. “A to-go cup of coffee, perhaps? You didn’t sleep much last night, and the tunnels in this lair are probably extensive. You don’t want to run out of steam halfway through exploring.”

“No, I’m good.”

Ulric and Jasper came out right before Nathanial, their black suits similar to Brochan’s, but with white pocket squares.

The other shifters weren’t long after, their pocket squares red. The basajaun had on a black bow tie and a bunch of hair, like yesterday, and Hollace wore a purple pocket square.

Niamh finally straightened up, wearing a pantsuit like Cyra’s but with a holster for a flask. She had a pink pocket square.

“Well, wait,” Mr. Tom said, looking around, his gaze finally landing on Edgar. “Even you, Edgar? Everyone has a pocket square but me?”

“Well, if ye weren’t so busy hemming and hawing, about messing up the plane ride,” Niamh said, walking over to stand beside Brochan, “ye would’ve heard us plan it out, ye gobshite.”

“Each species gets a color,” Brochan said. “Yours is white.”

Mr. Tom straightened himself a little higher. “I’m no ordinary gargoyle. I am also the butler and personal assistant to the heir of Ivy House.”

“Well now, personal assistant, is it?” Niamh asked, a twinkle in her eyes. “What, then, do ye personally assist? Her travel arrangements?”

“Okay, okay, enough.” I rubbed my temples. “Mr. Tom, wear whatever color you want. Or none. It doesn’t matter. You have wings; they’ll get the idea.”

He lifted his nose. “I will wear white in solidarity.”

“Then why were ye on about yer extra failed tasks that ye do?” Niamh hollered at his retreating backside. “Jaysus, Mary, ’n’ Joseph, that gargoyle would drive ye to drink.”

“That’s your gift, then?” I pointed at her holster and flask.

“Aye.” She patted it. “The finescht whiskey that ever graced the land, kept nice and handy.”

“Which whiskey is that?” Brochan asked.

“No idea. I didn’t recognize the name and can’t taste the difference. But the note said it was the best, and so I’ll believe it. It sounds better than saying I got some eld slop he threw my way and don’t care regardless.”

Austin emerged last, his suit molding to his perfect body, his swagger on point, and his face hard. The alpha was ready for a gentlemanly battle of wits.

He looked around the room, checking out everyone’s clothes, before his gaze landed on me. His once-over lingered in a way Brochan’s hadn’t. He didn’t nod at the end, just took his place by my side and quietly waited for Mr. Tom to finish fiddling with his pocket square and join us.

“What took you?” I asked him.

“You won’t heal me. I’m still sore. I was stretching.”

I could feel his humor filter through the link even though it didn’t show on his face. I hadn’t healed myself either, and I was still a little sore today despite my fast healing abilities. I liked it. I liked the reminder of what Austin had done to me last night, how often he’d done it, and how hard. We’d kept at it into the small hours of the morning, only stopping to eat and lay a tripwire spell. I’d decided it was too risky to use one of the warding spells.

Even after all we’d done last night, I still craved Austin, the need for him unquenched, my desire still pulsing hot.

“Okay. My apologies.” Mr. Tom filed in, holding a tray of shot glasses filled with the revealing potion I’d made at home and packed. It would hopefully help us see any mages using an invisibility spell.

If we got out of this, I would set to work trying to figure out a potion that allowed me to see invisible people while being invisible myself. It didn’t make sense that that wasn’t a common thing. It had to be doable.

Sebastian would have been able to help me with that, I suspected, a thought that steeled my resolve.

“We all know our tasks?” I asked after everyone had drunk it, touching Austin’s pants pocket and feeling the crinkle of the map. Hollace had asked the service staff for more copies, and they’d complied without complaint, giving us a stack. We’d break off into teams of three or four, each of which would scout a specific section of the tunnels before reporting back and sharing notes.

Everyone murmured their assent as Edgar drifted in closer.

“I’m still unclear as to what to do about trouble,” Edgar said.

“Try to avoid it, and if you can’t, fight back,” I said. “The Mages’ Guild can’t get in here, and Elliot Graves is on their list of top offenders—it doesn’t sound like he’ll report anyone. Don’t start anything, but go ahead and finish it.”

I waited for nods from everyone before I turned and pulled down the tripwire spell. We marched down the hall to the main entrance, utterly silent but for the swish of our clothes and my footfalls. I still wasn’t very good at being quiet.

A man sat in one of the blue velvet chairs, an open newspaper in front of him and his ankle over his knee. A steaming white mug sat on the table by his elbow. Service staff bustled around outside, sweeping up debris left over from my episode, or maybe someone else’s. The glass double door hadn’t been fixed.

“Hello,” I said demurely as we crossed the entranceway to the other opening that would lead way back into the mountain, or so we figured based on the twisting length of the tunnels. I was in a wing of my own, it seemed. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

The man pulled down a corner of his paper, and I realized belatedly that I probably shouldn’t have said anything at all. A lifetime of politeness with strangers had gotten the better of me.