Wolfe and Santi arrived together. Both were dressed, as the orders from Callum had specified, in formal clothing; Wolfe, in utter defiance of the spirit of things, wore his Scholar's robe over his black velvet coat. Except for the coat, he looked much as he always did.
Santi, like Dario, wore a brocade jacket. His was a mix of navy and black, subtle enough, but just a little flash, with silver buttons that winked down the front and on the cuffs.
"You look very fine, Captain," Glain said.
"I've worn my share of dress uniforms. It isn't so different." Santi seemed on edge, Jess thought, as if he scented something in the wind. Jess faded back a step, put himself next to Morgan and at an angle. If Santi was searching for signs of trouble, he didn't want the captain reading his blank expression, any more than he wanted Glain to study him closely.
He was going to break, and it might just be for an instant, but if either of them saw it-
"Jess." He looked at Morgan, and she put both hands on his face and pulled him to her for a kiss. The shock of it stilled all the turmoil for a long, sweet moment, and when the kiss ended, she stayed close, lips touching his, to whisper, "We can do this."
He nodded, took her hands in his, and held them. Breathed in and out and found his balance again.
At the far end of the hall, wide double doors opened, and Brendan stepped inside. He was dressed formally, too, only his jacket was a dark gray, and he wore a bright blue silk vest beneath it. No tie; he'd substituted a loose cravat instead. "Ladies and gentlemen," Brendan said, and his voice rolled and echoed through the cavernous space, over the bookshelves and the ornate couches and chairs and walls. "Dinner is served. Follow me."
"Pretentious prat," Jess muttered, and offered his elbow to Morgan. She took it, and the light touch of her hand on his arm, even through the coat, seemed to tingle against his skin.
"I heard that," Brendan told him as they passed.
"Meant it," Jess replied. The backs of their hands brushed, and when Jess glanced at him, he saw that his brother's face was pale but calm. He'd carry this through.
The dining hall's formal table was set for forty, and almost all of the chairs were already filled with Callum Brightwell's guests, save for the ones reserved for Jess and his friends, and Brendan. No Anit; she was waiting at her ship.
As Jess led them in, with Thomas and Glain, Dario and Khalila following, the men and women at the table stood silently, waiting. Once they'd all reached their chairs, and Brendan had gone to Callum Brightwell's right hand at the top end of the table, Jess's da said, "Welcome, all of you," and took his seat. There was a great rush of scuffling and rustling, and then they were all seated, and the meal was under way. Jess found himself next to a scruffy old man in a suit that had seen better days; he vaguely remembered him. Another smuggler, named Argent. Morgan, across the table from him, was next to a younger, scarred man called Patel, who seemed completely at ease in his very fine evening dress. Dinner proceeded with perfect elegance, course by course, and Jess couldn't force himself to do more than pretend to take bites. He made small talk as best he could. Morgan fared better.
They were halfway through the main course-lamb, though Patel had received a vegetarian option-when the old salt next to Jess said, too loudly, "It's said you were at Philadelphia when it was destroyed. Likely they meant before it was destroyed, eh? Couldn't have been there when the bombs fell, could you?"
It was probably meant for casual conversation, but it hit their end of the table like, well, a globe of Greek fire. They all froze in place, knives and forks stilled. Everyone looked at Jess, who slowly put his utensils down and reached for the wineglass. He took a generous gulp, didn't taste it, and said, "We were there." It was just three words, said softly enough, and he was proud that they didn't signify any emotion at all. Morgan was looking at him with wide, worried eyes. "When the bombs started falling." He picked up his knife and fork and began cutting meat again. He chewed and swallowed, and that was a mistake, because the sweetish taste of rank smoke came back to him, and he nearly coughed. He reached for the wine again.
"Well, young lads and ladies, that is a truly remarkable thing," said the old man at his left elbow. "The cleverness of smugglers, eh? Come out by one of the cousins' tunnels, did you?"
Patel was more sensitive to their stillness, their silence, and he leaned forward and said, "Perhaps not the time, Mr. Argent."
"We didn't have any help from smugglers," Dario said. He had his wineglass in his hand, too, and fire in his dark eyes. "We got ourselves out. Together."