Really? No, not really. Things aren’t perfect. We’re clinging on to the precipice-edge of normality by our fingernails, with rocks and small boulders bouncing off our backs. Sometimes we argue, but I’m damned if I’ll tell Mhari that. I smile. “Really.”

“Good for you,” she says under her breath. A waitress appears from nowhere and makes the soiled plates disappear; another waiter dances past and vanishes, while bowls of exquisite-smelling soup appear in front of us. I blink, wondering if they’re using some kind of gate invocation—but no, it’s entirely sleight of hand. “This will be good,” she warns me. “Respect the food.”

We give the soup the silent appreciation it deserves. For myself, it also serves as cover for analysis. Mhari wants to know about my personal life? That’s suggestive, but there are multiple possible explanations. I wait until we’re most of the way through the course, then clear my throat. “Ready for another question?” I ask. She nods. “Okay, my question is the same as your last one. Married, divorced, single, kids, and so on. How about it?”

She puts her soup spoon down. “As subtle as ever.” She manages a wry smile. “Married for three years. Divorced. Had boyfriends since then. Currently single.”

My ward stings me, hard, just above my solar plexus. “Oof.”

“What?”

I close my eyes. “Mhari.”

“Yes—”

“Lying to me is not a good idea.” I open my eyes and she flinches. It’s a brief reflexive motion, rapidly controlled, but her pupils dilate. “‘Currently single’ isn’t the whole story, is it?”

“What—” She breaks eye contact, looks away with an expression of distaste. “Dammit, Bob. Are you clear on the concept of plausible deniability?”

I roll my eyes. “It’s not important. I don’t honestly need to know if you don’t want to talk—”

“Oh, I’ll tell.” She rolls the stem of her wine glass between forefinger and thumb. “He’s a banking executive and he’s married. It’s a status thing: trophy wife, two kids, famous in-laws, officially all stable and happy. So we’ve been having a fling on the side, but it’s strictly casual. He’s not going to divorce her in order to whisk me away to live happily ever after, and anyway, I’m not interested in life as Executive Wife 2.0.” This time my ward remains quiescent: she’s telling the unvarnished truth as she sees it, although there’s a slightly bitter edge to her voice. She looks at me speculatively: “I give it two weeks to run, plus or minus.

“Now. My next question. What are you hoping to get out of this conversation?”

I roll my eyes. “Who wants you dead?”

“No, it’s not your turn—”

“You misunderstand, that wasn’t a question. That was my answer.”

“What?” She looks perplexed.