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“I was still a kid.” She paused as the waiter came up to ask what she wanted. “Can you guys do a bramble?”

The waiter blinked. “I—don’t think I’ve heard of that. I’ll ask the bartender, though.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” She thought it over for a moment. “I’ll take a basic martini.” Once the waiter walked away, she turned her attention back to Gideon. “You’re right, Americans can’t mix gin drinks to save their lives.”

He chuckled. “I would have attempted to order for you, but I think I despise the menu.” He eyed the piece of paper in his hands. “I suppose I’ll order the fried fish.”

“Hard to go wrong with fried.”

“Hard to get sick from it, as well.” He wrinkled his nose.

“Oh, come on, you can’t get food poisoning.” With a hum, she realized she honestly didn’t know if he could. “Wait, can you?”

“No, but I can have my body—summoned as it might be—insist that what I’ve put in must come right back out. Which is hardly pleasant.”

“Huh. I learned the other week I could still get the flu, so that was fun.” She smiled. “Poor Algernon was so worried.”

“I see you’ve crafted an illusion for him. Well done.”

“I mean, he’s a rat. It’s not like I have to get the facial features right.” She chuckled. “And people wig out enough when a rat jumps out of your bag, let alone one that looks like it came from the reject bin of a Halloween Outlet.”

“Pah. Be kind. He’s a mid-grade Halloween prop.” He sipped his beer, made a face, and put it back down. “I think I will switch to hard alcohol, on second thought.”

“Not a Sam Adamsfan?”

“Apparently not.”

“Snob.”

“Guilty as charged.”

Propping her elbow up on the table, she plopped her chin in her hand and watched him. “How are you, Gideon?”

“Oh, quite fine. Work has kept me busy. I spent a few months in Morocco, dealing with a bit of a mafia uprising. It was a nice change of pace.”

She watched him flatly. She almost believed him. Almost. But there was a crack in his perfect veneer. “Are you telling me the truth, G?”

Stunned, he processed the words that came out of her mouth. “Did you just call me ‘G’?”

“Seems like it.”

“I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that.” He shrugged a shoulder. “I suppose it isn’t terrible. There are worse things you could call me.”

The waiter came back with her martini, Gideon ordered one to match, and they placed their food orders. She got a plate of onion rings for the table, she ordered the whole-belly fried clams, and he got the fish ‘n chips. They were both relieved to find out they had malt vinegar.

“Can’t get fat,” she said with a grin as the waiter walked away. “Might as well enjoy it, right?”

“One of the greatest joys of being as we are.” His silver eyes glittered in amusement. “And no, I was not lying to you. I did spend the better part of three months in Morocco being shot at, or convincing people to stop shooting at other people.”

“That wasn’t the bit I’m dubious about. It was the first part. Where you said you’ve been ‘quite fine.’”

“Ah.” It seemed he couldn’t keep eye contact as he stared down into his martini, spinning the glass between his fingers. It was still getting dark fairly early, and the firelight from the gas patio heater reflected off the surface of the drink.

His jaw ticked, and he shifted uncomfortably on the wooden bench. Finally, after it seemed like he was going to ignore her, he finally answered. “It isn’t any of your concern.”

“Ouch.”

“What am I to say, Marguerite?” He looked up at her then, and she was taken aback by the hurt in his eyes. “What is it you wish to hear from me? That I sit alone, unsure of what to do with myself, or that I still reach for you in the night only to find you missing?” He grimaced and looked away again, turning his attention to the view of the Fort Point Channel next to the restaurant. He rolled his shoulders back, cracking them. “I have kept busy. I am immortal. I am fine.”