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