We sat in a semicircle on the blanket, which didn’t do much to buffer the snow beneath us.
Mallory opened her bag, pulled out a round sterling silver platter polished to a high shine. She’d borrowed it from Margot’s stash of serving ware during her search for magic-making gear. She’d also brought matches, a sprig of rosemary, and a short bottle of champagne.
“What’s the bubbly for?” Ethan asked, when she’d set out her equipment and put the bag aside.
“Us,” she said with a smile. “It’s been a long night already.” She handed the bottle to Catcher. “Please to uncork, while I prepare the rest.”
She put the platter on the ground between us, the sprig of rosemary on top of it.
“This looks like alchemy,” I said. “Minus the crucible.”
“It’s inspired by alchemy, by what Sorcha did, and by my own style.”
I looked at Catcher. “What’s your style?”
“You know the answer to that,” he said, pulling the cork with his teeth, a whisper of smoke escaping the bottle.
“Weapons,” I said. He’d been the first to train me to use a katana, had used magic and my blood to temper the blade, which gave me the ability to sense steel weapons. Not an unuseful skill given the kinds of things we usually faced.
“Weapons,” he agreed, taking a swig of champagne and passing the bottle around. “We get to the point that we actually have something to fight, and I’m your man.”
“He’s being modest,” Mallory said, taking a hearty drink and passing the bottle to Ethan. She sat back on her heels. “That he’s best at weapons doesn’t mean he isn’t great at everything else.” She looked at him, winked. “All sorts of things.”
“We don’t need the details,” Ethan said, taking a drink and passing the bottle to me, condensation icing over the outside of the bottle. If it hadn’t been for the alcohol content, the champagne might have frozen in the achingly crisp air. But that didn’t affect the taste, the delicate blossom and bubbles.
Mallory shook her head. “You’ve already been married to Duchess too long.” Then she slapped a hand over her mouth, let out a mumbled swear.
It took me a moment to cue in to what she’d said—to the fact that she’d just given up his nickname for me. I glanced at Ethan, eyebrow arched in perfect imitation of his own favorite quirk. “Duchess? That’s what you call me?”
His smile was broad and amused. “Darth Sullivan,” he reminded me.
“That particular shoe fit,” I reminded him.
“And ‘Duchess’ doesn’t?”
“I’m not the princessy type.”
“No, you aren’t. But that’s not how you earned the name. Recall that on our first meeting you marched into my House, with your pale skin and dark hair, and those hauntingly pale eyes—eyes that were filled with so much pain and anger. You looked like the duchess of some strange and beautiful land. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
I just stared at him. He’d given me compliments before, and obviously I knew that he loved me. But I’d never heard the story of our first meeting in quite the same way.
“And then she challenged you to a duel,” Mallory said to him.
“She did. She was very imperious.”
Mallory nodded. “And you were like, ‘All right, girl. Let’s go. Let’s see what you’ve got.’”
I pointed at Mallory. “You aren’t helping.”
“I disagree, but . . .” She mimed zipping up her lips.
“And she’s right,” Ethan said. “That’s fairly close to my recollection.”
“Damn, Sullivan,” Catcher said as I offered the bottle back to him. He declined, so I recorked it, set it aside. “Merit’s got that Angry Master look down pat. You should probably be careful using that particular moniker.”
Ethan grinned at me. “He has a point, Duchess. You are good at it.”
I growled. Maybe I needed to challenge him more often, I thought. Just to keep him in line.