Primrose sat up straighter. “I don’t have time for a meal,” she said, shaking her head. “A glass of something perhaps.”

Orfeus settled back down. “Ah,” she said, trying to hide her disappointment. She would have to wave away the chef if they appeared brandishing the roast chicken Orfeus had apparently wasted her week’s meat allowance on.

She put on a smile, easy and quick, and tossed her hair. Long, curly hair, glossy as hazelnuts, buzzed short and soft on the other side. Orfeus herself wore no makeup: it was good to seem as though she put no thought into this. She waved her hand, and with the gesture made a certain curl with her thumb, using just a little of her Blood to make sparks scatter out from her hand. She said grandiosely, “Two glasses?”

Primrose tried to hide her smile and didn’t quite manage it. Those purple lips curved, softened. “Fine,” she said.

Orfeus grinned, and clapped her hands a little too dramatically to summon the server.

No roast chicken, but small glasses of deep red grape juice and a bowl of crisp salad greens to share between them. Plenty of good and comfortable things lay between them, other nights, other pastimes.

Primrose was quiet, rarely smiling, hard to draw out even though Orfeus contrived to be as charming and witty as she could. Orfeus danced a crouton over her fingers and said, “Would you like me to lambaste that pianist? I feel they could try a little harder.”

Primrose let out a sigh, mostly fond, a little not. “No music talk,” she said. “For once?”

That seemed unfair. Most of her talk was music talk. But it wasn’t as if she had any shortage of other things to talk about.

Nor any wisdom when it came to choosing subjects, either. “How’s Bellan?” Orfeus said brightly.

Primrose glanced over her shoulder, as though her husband would suddenly appear brandishing his own tiny glass. “He’s well,” she said after a moment, and looked back at Orfeus with a furrow pinching her brow. “Do you really want to know, Orfeus?”

Orfeus put her chin on her hand and shrugged. “I would hardly ask if I didn’t want to know.” Liar.

“He doesn’t know I’m here,” Primrose said. “But he doesn’t not know, if you get my meaning.” She sighed. “I doubt this’ll be worth the fight.”

Orfeus tapped her foot against the ground, a restless tic that wouldn’t be a tell. “Dear Bell still doesn’t approve?” she said.

She intended it to sound sympathetic, but had made it sarcastic to judge by the look Primrose gave her. Prim could cut sharp as thorns. “Of course he doesn’t,” she said. “He loves me. And I him.”

Orfeus hummed noncommittally and shrugged.