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“I amtwenty-seven,” I reminded her.

“—neither of whom have seen fit to bring a partner in their lives, I am getting desperate. I need grandchildren, Lucian. Posthaste.”

Why was I here again?

My father walked into the atrium, half hidden behind the humongous tray piled with his legendary roast, screaming, “Out of the way, out of the way!”

One sniff, and I remembered.

Oh yeah. That.

Both Mother and I moved together without a spoken agreement, and the tray floated out of my father’s hands and on to the center of the table, while her magic rearranged the bottles, glasses, and plates to make room.

We were not going to let a single drop fall to the floor. Father might be a klutz just as dangerous as Lucky, but damn if the man couldn’t cook.

Once lunch was saved, we all sighed in relief.

Mine didn’t last long.

“The girl, Ronan. I need a name.”

I fixed my best friend with a glare, the threat quite clear.

“A name, Ronan, love,” my mother whispered, her power making her voice ever so soft and silky.

Oh, shedidn’t.

“It’s—”

“No name,” I snapped. “No name, and I’ll see her next week.”

Cassiopea Regis’s green eyes, pulsing with the enchantment only the descendent of a siren could wield, abandoned Ronan, settling on mine. “There, now. That wasn’t hard, was it?”

She left us, circling the table to rush to her husband’s side, pressing her lips against his. “This is a good day, darling. A very good day.”

“Sorry,” Ronan squeaked.

I kicked his leg nonetheless.

The table was almost full, though we always left a few free seats for last-minute visitors. On the other side, my fraternal grandmother and Lucky were chatting away about gin, and a few neighborhood kids whose parents worked long hours were animatedly discussing the next dueling competition in the Circle. I’d only just served Ronan and myself some wine while my father cut a few of his dishes when Damian showed, gracing us with his presence a few minutes after we settled.

I wasn’t certain he’d come. He hadn’t been there last week. The dick was always busy with his machinations these days. Or politics. I preferred the former word: it was more honest.

My elder brother earned just as much bullying and prying as I did—except he had no Ronan to stab him in the back, so he suffered less.

He sat next to Ronan, sending me the same mistrusting glare he’d sported since he first sentenced me to the Guard six months ago. We didn’t have to speak to understand each other.

Do your worst, prick.

Oh, I will, asshole.

“Oh, Mother, Nana,” I called across the table. “Before I forget, I thought of you last week.”

I patted down the inner pocket of my jacket, retrieving three olive-sized balls I tapped lightly. Three fully loaded Fortnum and Mason hampers burst back into their real size.

Naturally, I could have gifted them last week, but what was the point of doing that without Damian sucking on a lemon?

Each hamper, filled with jams and marmalade, alcohol, tea, chocolate, and lemon curd floated in the direction of my mother, father, and grandmother.