He slid the notebook back to his side of the table and wrote, Heard a great new Camphire-ism today. Camphire was a Ho Street mural painter, and by either human or fey definition, odd. If there’s an elven equivalent for LSD, she might have done too much of it when she was about six. He added to the page, “You have to break an omelette to make eggs.”

I stared at the sentence. “Oh. That almost makes sense.”

“You’re right,” said Tick-Tick, and shook her head. “It must be the apocalypse.”

Wolfboy raised one shoulder and both eyebrow equivalents, and wrote, Or Camphire’s a secret Sufi master … nah.

Peach set our bottles of ale in front of us, dug out her pad and looked hopeful. She was too shy to actually ask for an order. The Ticker opted for the casserole, Wolfboy for the Brunswick stew, and I decided on the fish chowder. Peach smiled at me as if she’d been waiting all night for someone to do that.

“You’re sure? I’m buying, remember,” Tick-Tick said.

“You’ve never had Lucy’s chowder, I can tell. Are there mussels in it today, Peach?”

She blushed like her namesake. “Lots. Um. And Bill just brought a cheesecake in.”

“See?” I said to the Ticker. “I’m having dessert.”

Peach smiled, blushed harder, ducked her head, and bolted for the kitchen.

Wolfboy wrote. What did the Human Compass do to rate dinner?

“Hisss,” I said. “I drink your blood, Dog Nose.”

“No killing,” Tick-Tick said, “or Peach won’t bring my order. He found my stolen wrench.” She told the story with, I thought, less relish than she might once have. I couldn’t decide if I felt bad about that or not. Partway through Wolfboy shot me an odd sideways look, as if to suggest that he’d ask for the rest later, from me.

Peach ducked past again. “I set a piece of cheesecake aside for you,” she told me, about as fast as the human mouth can move without stuttering, and darted away.

The Ticker propped her chin in her palm and regarded me with bland approbation. “She thinks you’re cute,” she said. Wolfboy giggled, a terrible thing to hear from a guy covered with fur.

I grimaced.

“Come now,” Tick-Tick said. “What’s wrong with Peach?”

“Nothing. She’s a sweet kid.” Wolfboy’s cider-gold eyes fastened on me. “Guess I just like wild women.”

“You like women who use men like you for toothpicks,” the Ticker said, and now she had me pinned in her sights. Elf-silver and wolf-gold—or maybe wolves don’t have gold eyes.

“Ahem,” I said, looking at Tick-Tick. “Since I promised not to mention your last boyfriend in your hearing ever again, I’m at a little disadvantage here.”