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“Vinegar?”
And damned if a splash of the white wine variety didn’t help.
But not enough.
“I could go ask Claire,” I said, but Reiðarr bristled.
“We don’t need Claire. We can do this.”
We all stood around and contemplated the bowl for a minute.
Then Gessa finished wrestling a tray of hand pies out of the oven and took a taste. And rolled her eyes at us. She tapped a cabinet with the handle of a wooden spoon, and I opened it to find—
“Okay, yeah.”
“What is that?” Reiðarr demanded, because he was apparently now a chef.
“Ambrosia,” I told him, sprinkling a liberal dose over the eggy mix on his spoon.
He tried another tiny taste, looking dubious, and then his eyes widened and he ate the whole spoonful. He grabbed the jar before I could dose my own eggs. “What is this?”
“I told you: ambrosia. Or smoked paprika, if you’re looking for it in the grocery store.”
He looked like he was making a mental note.
Ring, ring, ring.
“All right, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Marlowe snapped. “Is that clear enough for you?”
“I don’t know.” I ate some eggs. Those were damned fine eggs. I shared a look of triumph with my co-chefs.
“What do you mean, you don’t know? What more do you want?”
I licked my fingers. “Normally, an apology comes with a little more than that. Like an acknowledgment of guilt. What, exactly, are you sorry for?”
There was a sudden silence on the other end of the line.
“Bang, bang?” I prompted.
And got an outraged noise in return. “You can’t still be upset about that!”
“Still?” I felt my blood pressure rise. “You shot me! All of a day ago!”
“I clipped you all of a day ago,” he corrected nastily. “To slow you down. And you should be grateful—”
“Grateful?”
“I had a perfect shot, and that gorilla you were with never even heard me. I could have killed you—”
“So I should be thanking you?”
“Apologizing for wasting my time, perhaps—”
Click.
I was going to tell Louis-Cesare about that gorilla comment.
I swore to God.
