Chapter 18
She ran her hand over the smooth mahogany surface, a smile on her lips. She remembered the first time she’d sat down at this table.
It had been covered in a lace tablecloth, every place set with both plates and chargers, napkins in brass rings, three forks, two spoons, and two knives, and two wineglasses.
She’d been terrified.
It was the first time she’d met Matthew’s parents, and she’d so very much wanted to make a good impression. Her family hadn’t been poor, but in comparison to Matthew, she might as well have been.
She missed him. Her Matthew.
“Rayn?”
I pulled myself out of the thoughts of the table’s owners, although I wasn’t sure if it had come from a thrift store because of its style or whether it might belong to one of the party’s hosts. “Yes?” I asked my boss.
“Anything interesting?” he asked, rolling himself over.
“It was a dining room table at some point,” I replied. “Owned by the family of a man named Matthew, then passed to his wife after his death.”
“Huh,” Ward replied. “I guess I’d assumed that Cynthia had bought it herself.”
“Cynthia?” I asked.
Ward smiled. “Our client’s mother, who usually comes to these and asks to speak to Matthew.”
“Ah,” I replied.
“Oooh, dinner!” Vi announced, having opened the door to a knock, admitting two servers who came through the main door, each carrying a tray with several covered plates.
“What’s that?” I asked.
Ward grinned, then patted the top of the table. “That is the same dinner that our client is feeding his guests,” he replied as the two servers set the trays on the table. “Thank you,” he said to them.
“You’re welcome,” one of them replied smoothly. “We’ll be back to collect the dishes in an hour.”
“Thank you,” I repeated, and both of them nodded as they left us to our meal.
“Fancy,” Vi remarked, eyeing the actual flatware. “Reminds me of when the ’rents used to have catered dinner parties.”
Ward’s brows went up, but he didn’t say anything to that, instead starting to lift lids off plates and bowls.
Dinner was roasted chicken breast for Vi and me, and some sort of white fish for Ward, parsnip purée with a light gravy, roasted zucchini blossoms filled with some sort of cheese filling, and charred roasted carrots and brussels sprouts, the last of which Ward also didn’t eat.
We’d also been given warm french bread and butter, some bottles of sparkling water, and three slices of an extremely rich chocolate cake drizzled with blackberry sauce.
“This is really good,” Vi murmured around a mouthful. “So much better than having to hit up a Wendy’s.” Which was where the three of us had picked up dinner last night on our way to the private house party just outside of Fredericksburg.
The party itself hadn’t really been terribly exciting. Lots of people in costume masks and sequined outfits like an old-style masquerade ball from the 1920s or 1930s, and although things had wrapped up pretty early, we’d still gotten back late because of the drive.
Ward smiled. “Don’t get too used to it,” he told Vi. “David’s always been generous and made sure to feed us.”
“It’s a good way to make sure he gets you back every year,” I pointed out.
Ward nodded. “It is,” he agreed. “So is paying me very well.” He grinned.
“I like the fact that nobody can throw a brick this high,” Vi remarked, shooting me a look.
I sighed, but Ward smiled. “I can’t argue with that.”
All three of us were exhausted by the time we hit two a.m. and the contract officially ended, although it was almost three before we managed to pack everything up and get ourselves into the elevator down to the garage where I’d parked Mason’s truck, which he’d insisted I use again.
I was carrying one big bin, and Vi had the other one.
Ward had a big tote that had been filled with three big boxes of leftover food, three small boxes of leftover cake, and some small bags of party favors that David, the very personable and friendly client, had insisted we take with us in addition to the check for a ridiculous amount of money.
I wasn’t going to complain about having these leftovers.
Vi and I loaded the bins into the back of the truck, then Vi took the bag and climbed in the back seat while I helped Ward into the passenger seat, then loaded his chair with the bins and closed the tailgate.
“Everybody good?” I asked, then started the truck upon receiving assent from both of them.
I wasn’t prepared for the massive crowd of people waiting outside the parking ramp.
The police and a private security firm had cordoned off the building’s drop-off zone for the wealthy clientèle, but nobody’d put security back here, and the protestors had figured out that it was the only place they’d be able to encounter people coming from the party—specifically, the people working the party.
So us.
The wait staff were still cleaning—they had much more work than we did—so we were likely the first car to pull out since the party started.
“Oh, shit,” Vi hissed as something impacted the passenger window behind me. I agreed, but concentrated on pushing the truck forward without actually hitting anybody, although they weren’t making it easy.
I wondered if they knew who we were, specifically, or if they were happy to throw various objects, including at least one apple, trash like balled-up flyers or newspapers or empty coffee cups, smallish rocks, and a half-eaten candy bar that left a streak of something on the windshield before I used the wipers to dislodge it.
They were shouting insults about Arcanids, Arc-humans, and people who sympathized with them, as well as magic and magic use in general. I tried to tune out the specifics, focusing on just getting through them.
Ward had pulled out his phone. “Hey, Dan. Are you downtown? Yeah, the plaza. We’re trying to get out of the ramp.
” A pause, and I could hear the tinny sound of Detective Maza’s voice yelling through the phone, although, again, I couldn’t make out the specifics.
“Yeah, thanks.” Another pause. “Okay.” He kept the phone up, although it didn’t seem like anyone was speaking.
I suppose Maza had asked him to keep the phone on, just in case, until someone got over to us.
The whoop of a siren sounded as a patrol car pulled up, an officer getting out of the passenger side, yelling, one hand on the butt of his weapon. More people approached, most in ordinary clothes, which made me think they were likely more protestors.
“Yeah,” Ward said into the phone. “There’s a car, but it’s just the car and one other guy. Not sure that’s enough.” A pause. “Okay.”
More people were approaching from around the side of the building, but they were carrying flashlights and wearing uniform clothing—the promised police. “Dan? They’re here. We should be good. Thanks.” He hung up.
I noted grimly that these new police only seemed to do the very bare minimum of shooing the protestors away, not really stopping them from throwing things and definitely not discouraging them from shouting.
But they did clear enough of a path that I was able to get through the crowd, and as soon as I was clear, I sped up, heading away from downtown and toward Ward and Mason’s house on the south side of the river, where I’d left my car when I’d traded it out for Mason’s truck that afternoon.
“Ugh,” Violette grumbled from the back, letting out a relieved sigh. “I hate those people.”
“I think the feeling is probably mutual,” Ward replied, his tone dark.
I texted Raj as soon as I got home and put my leftovers in the fridge.
I’m home safe.
There was just enough of a pause that I’d managed to get into the bathroom before it buzzed back at me.
You okay? Is everyone else?
We’re all fine, I sent back. No injuries.
Was the protest still there when you left?
I frowned. I didn’t want to have to tell him that, but I also didn’t want to lie to him.
Yes, I typed. But nobody got hurt or attacked.
Throwing an apple and half a candy bar did not, in my mind, constitute an ‘attack.’ Raj might not have seen it that way, but if the protestors had genuinely meant to hurt us, they absolutely would have.
I watched the text app notify me that he was typing, then stop. Then more typing. Then it stopped again. More typing.
Finally, a message popped up. Would it be okay if I came over?
I’d been expecting a lengthy lecture on how I hadn’t been safe, especially after yesterday. I wondered if all the dots were an indication that he’d done that, but then deleted it all again.
Yes, I sent back.
See you soon, he replied.
I sighed, feeling conflicted because I both wanted him to come over and also didn’t want to argue with him about my safety or lack thereof.
I needed to do something to keep myself busy in the intervening twenty or so minutes so I wouldn’t spend it all worrying about what Raj was going to say when he got here.
Although I had texted him last night, too, when I got home, I’d told him I needed to eat and go to bed—then shut off my phone.
I knew he hadn’t been as worried about last night, since it had been a private house.
Tonight, on the other hand, had been more dangerous—downtown, a planned protest, circumstances not entirely unlike those that had left me with a concussion.
I kind of hated the fact that he’d been right to be worried about the protest, since it seemed to give credence to his other fears—about me walking a mile in daylight back to my apartment, for example.
I opened the door to the fridge and tried to decide if I wanted a beer.
I didn’t really like beer. I didn’t really like alcohol all that much, since it reminded me of the taste of some of the medicines I’d had shoved down my throat—usually literally—at Tranquil Brook.
Wine was okay, especially with a meal, when I could taste the way it complemented the food.
Raj had offered me a sip of his beer when we’d gotten burgers once, and I could see the appeal in that context, too.
But none of that was why I was thinking about it now.