Chapter Sixteen
Charity
The dress Mother laid out on my bed looks like armor.
Navy silk with a high neckline and three-quarter sleeves—conservative enough to please her, expensive enough to announce my status.
The pearls beside it belonged to Grace. Mother's been pulling them out more often lately, as if dressing me in my dead sister's jewelry will somehow transform me into the perfect daughter she lost.
I fasten the clasp with shaking hands.
Friday arrived too quickly. All week I've been trying to prepare Draco, sending him texts about which fork to use and how to address my parents, but he just kept responding with reassurances and that infuriating confidence that makes me want to kiss him and shake him in equal measure.
Trust me, he kept saying. I've got this.
But he doesn't know my parents the way I do. Doesn't understand how they can slice someone apart with perfect manners and a smile.
My phone buzzes on the vanity.
Draco: On my way. You look beautiful.
Me: How do you know what I look like?
Draco: Because you always look beautiful. Also, I can see you from the path. You're pacing in front of your window.
I freeze, then spot him through the glass—dressed in dark clothes that fit his perfect body surprisingly well.
When I texted him yesterday about needing formal attire, he'd been evasive about how he'd handle it.
Now I understand—he must have borrowed something, or maybe found a decent suit at one of those vintage stores we visited.
He waves, and despite my anxiety, I feel myself smile.
Me: You look good. Where did you…?
Draco: Thrift store magic. Tell you later. Ready for battle?
I take one last look in the mirror—pearl earrings, minimal makeup, hair in a neat chignon that took me forty minutes to perfect. I look exactly like what Mother wants: a well-bred young woman from a good family, polished and appropriate and stripped of anything real.
Grace's ghost stares back at me from the mirror.
I tear my gaze away and head downstairs.
Father's already in the formal dining room when I arrive, reviewing something on his tablet. He glances up, nods approval at my appearance, then returns to his screen. Mother sweeps in moments later, pausing to adjust one of my pearl earrings with cool fingers.
"Much better," she murmurs. "Now remember, darling—be yourself, but the appropriate version."
Appropriate version. The curated one. The quiet one. The one who takes up as little space as possible.
My stomach drops when the doorbell chimes.
"I'll get it," I say quickly, but Mother's already moving toward the entrance hall with that purposeful stride that brooks no argument.
I follow, smoothing my dress with clammy palms. Through the frosted glass panels, I can see Draco's silhouette. He's alone—he must have left Lucky in the cottage. Smart. Mother would have used a dog as evidence of his unsuitability within thirty seconds.
She opens the door, and I watch her face perform a perfect mask of polite interest as she takes him in.
To his credit, Draco looks good. The dark suit is simple but well-fitted. The white shirt is crisp against his bronze skin. His hair is pulled back neatly, and he's clean-shaven. He looks like he belongs, even if the clothes came from a thrift store instead of a tailor.
"Mrs. Pembroke." He extends his hand, his accent smooth and cultured—not quite American, but not obviously foreign either. "Thank you for inviting me to your home."
Mother takes his hand for exactly two seconds. "Mr. Draco."
"Just Draco, please." His smile is warm but not overeager. "It's actually my first name. I never use my surname."
A flicker of disapproval crosses Mother's face—too casual, too unconventional—but she covers it with practiced ease. "How… modern. Please, come in."
She steps aside, and Draco catches my eye as he enters. Something passes between us—solidarity, maybe, or just acknowledgment that we're about to walk into battle together.
"You look stunning," he says quietly, and the genuine admiration in his voice makes heat climb my neck.
"You clean up pretty well yourself," I manage.
Father appears in the entrance hall, and I watch Draco's posture subtly shift—not submissive, exactly, but respectful. Strategic.
"Robert Pembroke." Father extends his hand for a firm shake. "Charity's father."
"A pleasure to meet you, sir. I'm Draco." He releases Father's hand at precisely the right moment—not too quick, not lingering. "Thank you for having me."
"Well." Father's gaze sweeps over him, assessing. "Charity speaks highly of you. We thought it was time to meet the young man who's been occupying so much of her attention."
The phrasing makes me sound like a possession instead of a person, but Draco doesn't flinch.
"I'm honored to be here," he says simply.
Mother gestures toward the dining room. "Shall we? Cook has prepared something special."
Draco reaches the table with the same quiet confidence he used navigating subway platforms. Before I can react, he steps behind my chair—smooth, unhurried—and the seat glides back from the table as if guided by invisible hands.
Only I catch the subtle press of his foot against the chair leg, the magician’s finesse disguised as simple courtesy. Then he takes my hands lightly and eases me into the seat with a gentleness that steals my breath.
Mother’s eyes widen a fraction. Father’s brows lift—just barely, but enough.
Draco isn’t finished.
Before taking his own seat, he steps around the table with graceful precision and pulls out Mother’s chair as well. Not showy. Not servile. Just impeccably respectful.
Mother startles—and then flushes, murmuring a soft, startled, “Oh—thank you.”
Father stares at Draco like a man realizing he has misjudged the battlefield.
Only when both my mother and I are seated does Draco take his own chair, settling with quiet self-possession, hands folded loosely on the table as if he’s done this a thousand times.
The silence that follows is taut, electric.
The formal dining room is exactly what I feared. The table has been set with the full china service—Mother's prized Wedgwood that only comes out for state dinners or when she's trying to impress important guests. Crystal wine glasses gleam under the chandelier. And the place settings…
My stomach sinks.
Three forks on the left. Two spoons on the right. Plus the butter knife resting on the bread plate at an exact forty-five-degree angle.
Draco’s eaten with forks and spoons for nearly two years, but before that, in Rome? Bread was his spoon, and knives were for the arena, not table manners. This setup—this choreography of silver—isn’t his terrain. And my parents know it.
It's a test. A blatant, obvious test designed to make Draco fumble so they can judge him as uncultured and inappropriate for their daughter.
"Beautiful table, Mrs. Pembroke.” Draco breaks the awkward silence.
Mother blinks, clearly expecting more reaction. "Thank you. We thought a proper dinner service would be appropriate."
"Of course." He picks up his napkin and places it in his lap with practiced ease. Under the table, his foot finds mine—a brief touch of solidarity.
The first course arrives: butternut squash soup in delicate bowls. I watch Draco from the corner of my eye as he selects the correct spoon without hesitation—the larger one on the right—and waits for Mother to begin before taking his first taste.
"Delicious," he says after a moment.
Mother's expression sharpens. She's already frustrated that he hasn't made an obvious mistake. "So, Draco. Charity mentioned you're a performer?"
The word drips with subtle disdain. I grip my soup spoon tighter.
"That's right." Draco's voice remains pleasant. "I specialize in close-up magic. Sleight of hand, mostly."
"How… entertaining." Father's tone suggests it's anything but. "And you make a living from this?"
"I do well enough." Draco meets his gaze steadily. "Magic is about creating wonder. People are willing to pay for moments that remind them the world is more mysterious than it seems."
"But surely that's not a sustainable career path," Mother says. "What are your long-term plans?"
A muscle jumps in Draco’s jaw—small, quick, the only crack in his calm. Not anger. Not aggression. Just that flash of Roman, honed-for-survival instinct that rises whenever someone judges worth by status or pedigree.
The tension bleeds from his expression as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the composed politeness he’s been wearing like armor all evening. When he answers, his voice is steady—measured—but now I can hear something underneath it. Resolve.
The interrogation has begun. I set down my spoon, appetite gone.
"I'm working on developing a touring show," Draco says smoothly. "There's growing interest in intimate magic performances—less Vegas spectacle, more art form. I've been approached by several venues about performances."
It's partially true—he has been talking about expanding beyond street performances. But the way he phrases it makes it sound more established than it is.
"Interesting," Father says in a tone that means the opposite. "And your family? What do they think of your chosen profession?"
The question lands like a trap. I know exactly what Father's fishing for—pedigree, connections, evidence of respectability.
Draco doesn't hesitate. "My family's no longer in the picture. I'm on my own."
The admission should make him seem less suitable. Instead, something flickers in Mother's expression—not quite sympathy, but maybe recognition that he's survived without a safety net.
"That must be difficult," she says carefully.
"It teaches you what matters." Draco picks up his wine glass—the correct one, the larger crystal for red—and takes a measured sip. "You learn who you are when you don't have name or money to hide behind."
The barb is subtle enough that Father doesn't react, but I catch it. So does Mother, if the tightening around her mouth is any indication.