“Thanks for saving me a seat. I’m happy to see I was wrong about your wound and that you’re still among the living.” His breath was tinged with liquor, and he had the manner of a man not on his first glass. Not even his second.
I looked across the table, catching Derrick’s scowl, but he was the only one who bothered to acknowledge Andrew’s presence. Calling him the black sheep of the family might have been the wrong label. Even scoundrels elicited some reaction.
Harold raised his glass. “Now that we’re all here, a toast to our guests. Old friends and new, we’re honored you could spend the week with us.”
“Here, here,” Richard chanted. “And to a fruitful year between our two families.”
Isabelle clinked her glass with Derrick’s and smiled over the rim as she took a sip. Her painted lips left a distinct smear on the surface.
Maybe Andrew had the right idea. Dinner with this family was an intolerable experience while sober.
“Can you turn her into a mouse with just your eyes?” Edward asked under his breath.
I blinked, breaking out of my jealousy spiral. “Excuse me?”
“The look you’re giving Isabelle. I just wondered if I was about to see her grow a pair of whiskers.”
“Was it that obvious?” I twirled my index finger in a slow circle.
Isabelle’s nose wiggled, and she scratched the tip in confusion. Edward’s eyes widened, and he drowned his laughter beneath a healthy swallow of wine.
Bad Tessa!
I hadn’t even laid my napkin across my lap, and already I was contemplating magic. It was time for some rules.
Rule number one: No spells at the dinner table!
Rule number two: Rules are made to be broken, so Isabelle had better watch her back…
The first course was served.
A bowl of mouthwatering bisque was placed in front of me, and the taste of it made my eyes go half-mast. Warm, honey-infused biscuits and thick pads of butter soothed my irritation. Maybe Derrick was right and I didn’t need to use magic for everything. All I needed was an endless supply of the melon-flavored sorbet that cleansed my palate between courses.
Derrick smiled at me from across the table, a knowing look in his eyes. Discreetly, he wrapped the last biscuit in a napkin and whispered something to a servant. The servant nodded and whisked the napkin from the room.
“For later,” he mouthed before having his attention dragged away by Isabelle.
Rule number three: Never doubt a man who knows you enjoy midnight snacks.
Conversation flowed along with the wine and food, and I actually found myself enjoying the evening. Edward regaled me with stories about Derrick as a child, while Andrew drank sullenly from a wineglass that never seemed to stay empty.
After the last plate was cleared, Cynthia tapped her glass with a fork and waited for the room to quiet down. “What a lovely meal. There is one course left, and I’m pleased to say it was baked and decorated by the talented Isabelle Snow.” She paused, then added as an afterthought, “Oh, and I believe Tessa also brought a dessert.”
A side door opened, and a servant wheeled in a cart holding a giant three-tiered cake. The ice-blue frosting was dotted with tiny sugar snowflakes, and silver candied beads spiraled around each tier, creating a snowstorm effect. The swirls drew my eye to the top, where an intricate sugar-spun starburst flourished.
The cake looked too stunning to eat, which couldn’t be said about the pitiful dish sitting beside it. My overcooked mincemeat pie wasn’t even in the same league.
Yup, Derrick was wrong. I should have used magic.
A hysterical laugh grew in the back of my throat. The edges of the room grew fuzzy as my gaze left the glorious cake and landed on Derrick. His mouth opened in wordless denial while everyone else gasped in awe—and maybe a bit of disgust when they spotted my contribution.
Isabelle looked as smug as a cat with a bird in its mouth as she absorbed the praise sent her way.
The servant reached for my pie first, slicing a piece and placing it on a small dessert plate. Mincemeat oozed out of the shell like mud, and the burnt ends of the crust crumbled like an avalanche into the filling. Cynthia waved away the plate, and it made its way down the table before settling in front of Edward. He peered at it from beneath his wired spectacles.
“Delightful,” he mumbled, not making eye contact with anyone.
I couldn’t die fast enough—though, from the look of it, one bite of the mincemeat congealing on Edward’s plate might do the trick. Everyone else accepted a thin piece of Isabelle’s cake, which the servant then sprinkled with fresh powdered sugar. It dusted the spongy confection like fresh snow.
