A hint of the warrior shone through as Randall’s eyes sharpened. “It’s dangerous?”

“No,” Bryce lied. “But we need to be a little stealthy.”

“And bringing along two humans,” Ember said testily, “is the opposite of that?”

Bryce sighed at the ceiling. “Bringing along my parents,” she countered, “would undermine my image as a cool antiquities dealer.”

“Assistant antiquities dealer,” her mother corrected.

“Ember,” Randall warned.

Bryce’s mouth tightened. Apparently, this was a conversation they’d had before. He wondered if Ember saw the flicker of hurt in her daughter’s eyes.

It was enough that Hunt found himself saying, “Bryce knows more people in this city than I do—she’s a pro at navigating all this. She’s a real asset to the 33rd.”

Ember considered him, her gaze frank. “Micah is your boss, isn’t he?”

A polite way of putting what Micah was to him.

“Yeah,” Hunt said. Randall was watching him now. “The best I’ve had.”

Ember’s stare fell on the tattoo across his brow. “That’s not saying much.”

“Mom, can we not?” Bryce sighed. “How’s the pottery business?”

Ember opened her mouth, but Randall nudged her knee again, a silent plea to let it drop. “Business,” Ember said tightly, “is going great.”

Bryce knew her mother was a brewing tempest.

Hunt was kind to them, friendly even, well aware that her mom was now on a mission to figure out why he was here, and what existed between them. But he asked Randall about his job as co-head of an organization to help humans traumatized by their military service and asked her mom about her roadside stand selling pottery of fat babies lolling in various beds of vegetables.

Her mom and Hunt were currently debating which sunball players were best this season, and Randall was still flipping through the newspaper and chiming in every now and then.

It had gutted her to hear what had happened to Hunt’s own mother. She kept the call going longer than usual because of it. Because he was right. Rubbing her aching leg beneath the table—she’d strained it again at some point during their cleaning—Bryce dug into her third croissant and said to Randall, “This still isn’t as good as yours.”

“Move back home,” her dad said, “and you could have them every day.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, eating another mouthful. She massaged her thigh. “I thought you were supposed to be the cool parent. You’ve become even worse than Mom with the nagging.”

“I was always worse than your mother,” he said mildly. “I was just better at hiding it.”

Bryce said to Hunt, “This is why my parents have to ambush me if they want to visit. I’d never let them through the door.”

Hunt just glanced at her lap—her thigh—before he asked Ember, “Have you tried to get her to a medwitch for that leg?”