He’d been studying the menu, but now he rocketed to his feet, confusion in his face. “Miriam—” He remembered to put the menu down. “Oh. You’re just—”

“Sit down,” she said, not unkindly. “I don’t want you to offer me a seat or hold doors open when it’s easier for me to do it myself.”

“Uh.” He sat, looking slightly flustered. She felt a sudden surge of desire. He was in evening dress, like the first time. Together they probably looked as if they were heading for a night at the opera. A couple.

“It’s been how long?” she asked.

“Four weeks and three days,” he said promptly. “Want the number of hours, too?”

“That would be—” She stopped and looked at the waiter who’d just materialized at her elbow. “Yes?”

“Would sir et madame care to view the wine list?” he asked stuffily.

“You go ahead,” she told Roland.

“Certainly. We’ll have the Chateau Lafitte ’93, please,” he said without pause. The waiter scurried away.

“Come here often?” she asked, amused despite her better judgment.

“A wise man said, when you’re planning a campaign, preparation is everything.” He grinned wryly.

“Are we safe here?” she asked. “Really?”

“Hmm.” His smile slipped. “Angbard sent a message. Your house appears to be clear, but it might be a bad idea to sleep over there. It’s not doppelgängered, and even if it was, he couldn’t vouch for its security. Apart from that—” He looked at her significantly. “I made sure nobody back at the office knows where I am tonight. And I wasn’t tailed here.”

The wine arrived, as did the waiter. They spent a minute bickering good-naturedly over the relative merits of a warming chowder against the chef’s way with garlic mushrooms. “What has Angbard got you doing?” she asked.