Lowry laughed and picked up his glass. It cast a shimmering red aura on the white tablecloth, as dark as a bloodstain. “A toast,” he said to the table. “To us, the most gauche and macabre of them all.”

“To new friendships,” Barrett interjected.

To Danu. To Vesria. To everyone we couldn’t save and everyone we will.

Their glasses clinked. Drunk on his own hubris, Lowry swilled his wine in one audible gulp. Wren hoped it burned all the way down.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Thirty minutes had never passed so slowly.

After the toast, Wren floated somewhere above her body, numb and uncomprehending, as Barrett explained to her the finer points of a military-issued flintlock—of which, he assured her, he had many. Wine and conversation flowed so readily, she feared she’d administered the drug incorrectly. But then Lowry began to sag, unable to bear the weight of his own skull. She watched him eagerly over the brim of her glass.

It was only when he hauled himself upright and muttered something about fresh air that Barrett stopped yammering. “You look awful, Alistair. Are you alright?”

“I feel awful,” Lowry said crossly.

He took one lurching step forward and stumbled. He threw one hand out to catch himself on the back of Barrett’s chair. Wren swore the air pressure changed from the room’s collective stifled gasp.

“You’re unwell.” She disgusted herself with her own fake wide-eyed concern. “Let me take a look at you.”

Wren rose and slid an arm around his waist to steady him. His body tensed at her touch, and although he was too weak to shove her off, she felt the fight kindling within him. If he accused her of foul play now, he might sink her. Their gazes met, and Wren’s breath caught.

He looked furious.

Then, as if she’d imagined it altogether, he heaved an overwrought sigh and promptly dumped all his weight onto her. Wren grunted as she tried to get a handle on him. He was nearly a full head taller than her—and it certainly didn’t help that he’d gone completely limp.

“Help me a little, would you?” she grumbled.

“I fear I cannot.” Annoyance punctuated his every word. “I’m in pain.”

Their every uneven step jingled merrily as the gemstones on his coattails bumped into each other. It added insult to injury as she dragged Lowry into the drawing room, pursued by the gawking stares of the peerage. She didn’t want to imagine what tomorrow’s gossip columns would say. Kicking the door shut behind them, she dropped him onto a chaise and backed away. Lowry sprawled out, still managing to look both elegant and absurd in his glittering suit.

“What did you give me?” he groaned. “My stomach is going to turn itself inside out.”

“I didn’t give you anything,” she said icily. “You’re drunk.”