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Sonder rose and fastened the middle button of his jacket. “Get the door.”

Gibbs did as he was instructed and Sonder went to the sideboard. “I take it you’ve officially met Miss Morrow, then?” he said as he poured a finger of whiskey each into two glasses.

“Yes, sir. She just moved into our suite on Third at Briseis.”

Sonder’s hands stilled mid-pour. “In the green room?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sonder sighed. “Stop with that ‘sir’ shite.”

“Sorry.”

Sonder handed him the glass of whiskey. “You’re a squirrelly lad, aren’t you?”

Gibbs eyed the amber liquid in his glass. “Em. It’s 1 p.m.”

“And? Aren’t you in college, for the second time? Live a little.”

Gibbs shrugged and took a sip. Sonder tried not to laugh when he wheezed. “Ugh. Thatburns.”

“That’ll put hair on the chest of even the most Irish of men.” Sonder clapped him on the shoulder and retrieved his cigar box from the drawer of the sideboard. He opened it and told Gibbs to pick what he’d like.

“Are those brown cigarettes?”

“Cigarillos,” Sonder clarified, biting back his horror at this uncultured swine. Handing one to Gibbs, he took one out for himself. “Thin cigars.”

It was clear he had never experienced cigars. Sonder had half a mind to pull out a pipe and see what he would do. Instead, he withdrew a matchbox from his trouser pocket to light the cigarillos for them both and gave Gibbs no instruction. Call it an experiment. A curiosity.

One go at it and Gibbs was coughing, banging a fist against his chest. “Jesus,” he gasped.

“You’re supposed to puff it, not inhale it,” Sonder told him calmly, pointing to a pitcher of water on the sideboard.

Gibbs filled a glass and returned to his seat with watery eyes. “How do I do this?”

“Good on you not giving up.” Sonder unbuttoned his coat and sat opposite him, showing him how to puff a cigarillo correctly. The professor in him took it far enough to show him how to properly use a pipe and chase the puff with a sip of whiskey.

“Are we bonding?” Gibbs asked stupidly when he finally got the sequence down.

“Christ.” Sonder sighed through his nose, finishing his cigarillo and laying the stub in a crystal tray. “Please don’t make me smack you in your stupid mouth.” He leaned back in his perfectly broken-in leather cigar chair. “You came here to talk about Miss Morrow.”

“She has the room right across from mine.”

A vicious warmth burned up Sonder’s chest. He hated that was the first thing Gibbs said. The idea that this moronic, adolescentchildwould daily have access to Atta’s room filled him with a peculiar fury.

Fucking hell, what was he thinking? Sonder shook the absurd emotion off. “And?”

“Oh, it’s only that. . . Well, wasn’t that your?—”

“Stop there,” he cut the lad off. “None of that is your concern. Now, if you would please spit out what your concernsarethen I can go on marking papers and be where I need to be this evening.”

Gibbs tapped his cigarillo into the tray incorrectly, ashes blowing everywhere. If he took another puff, the flavour would be all wrong now. “Right. I’m just concerned I might slip.”

“Slip?”

“Say something or do something that makes her realise who I am. Or that you will and she’ll figure out we’re part of the Society.”

“She’s clever, Gibbs, but she has no reason to connect those dots. Keep your distance from her and we won’t have a problem.”