“So table twenty-eight,” Ash says.

“Or table one,” I say, “for January,” and as the words leave my mouth, I realize my mistake. “Go. I’ll catch up.”

I turn, immediately walking toward the tables, not asking them to come with me—with more than half the crowd seated, it’s a risk I don’t expect them to take.

If one is for January, then eleven is for November.

But as I near the tables, it occurs to me that I can’t inspect the pinecones in front of the dinner crowd. And I don’t have a plan for taking the pinecone branch out of the arrangement. I’m going to look like a complete nutter or like I’m up to something. I press my nails into my palm. Think, November, this is your only shot.

I’m so focused on getting to table eleven that I accidentally bump into a Strategia woman holding a glass of champagne, almost knocking it out of her hand.

“Pardon,” I say in my best imitation of a proper Layla, and I wobble my step as I move away from her. “I think I’ve had a few too many glasses myself,” I say with a smile, quickly explaining away my un-Strategia-like clumsiness.

“That’s quite all right,” she says, like she doesn’t mean it, and before she can scrutinize me too closely, I turn and zigzag through the tables.

And it occurs to me, if that woman will accept a claim of drunkenness, maybe others will, too. After all, this is a celebration and there appear to be copious amounts of alcohol. I stop abruptly in front of table eleven, which is already three-quarters full.

“Good ol’ table twenty-one,” I say, hiccupping and plopping sloppily down in a chair that has a woman’s scarf on it.

The man next to me frowns disapprovingly. “This is table eleven,” he says. “And you’re in my wife’s seat.”

“Oh my goodness gracious,” I say, ignoring him. “Have you ever seen such a lovely centerpiece?” I flick a decorative branch with my pointer finger. “It’s just”—another hiccup escapes in what I consider a damn good impression of myself drinking whisky—“beaufitul, beautitul, feautibul.”

“Please do forgive us,” Ash’s voice says behind me, and I lean back, nearly falling out of my chair. I grab the table for support. “We went to the bar a little too early this evening,” he says, taking my arm to help me stand.