Quen was the only one there apart from the bartender, his stance hinting at unease as he stood, not sat, with a ramrod straightness in his suit coat and tie. He had the build to wear it well, but it probably hampered his movement more than he liked, and I smiled as he frowned and tugged at his sleeve, clearly not seeing me yet. The reflection in the glass behind the mirror showed the lights on the river. He looked tired—alert but tired.

His eyes were everywhere, and his head cocked as he listened to the muted TV in the upper corner behind him. Catching the movement of our approach, he turned, smiling. Last year I might have felt out of place and uncomfortable, but now I smiled back, genuinely glad to see him. Somehow, he’d taken on the shades of a father figure in my mind. That we kept butting heads the first year we’d known each other might have something to do with it. That he could still lay me flat out on the floor with his magic was another. Saving his life once when I had failed to save my dad probably also figured into it.

“Quen,” I said as he needlessly tugged his dress slacks and suit coat straight. “I have to say this is better than meeting you on the roof.”

The hint of weariness in his eyes shifted to warmth as he took my offered hand in a firm grip to help me onto the perch of the bar stool. Tired or not, he looked good in a mature, trim, security sort of way. He was a little short for an elf, dark where most were light, but it worked well for him, and I wondered if that was gray about his temples or a trick of the light. A new sensation of contentment and peace flowed from him—family life was agreeing with him, even if it was probably also why he was tired. Lucy and Ray were thirteen months and ten months, respectively. As Trent’s security adviser, Quen was powerful in his magic, strong in his convictions . . . and he loved Ceri with all his soul.

Quen made a sour, amused face at the reminder of our first meeting at Carew Tower. “Rachel, thank you for agreeing to see me,” he said, his low, melodious voice reminding me of Trent’s. It wasn’t an accent as much as his controlled grace extending even to his speech. He looked up as the bartender approached and topped off his glass of white wine. “What would you like while we wait?”