“Oh.” Alex’s grandfather’s shoulders sagged. He ran a hand across his brow, looking suddenly utterly drained, defeated. “Game’s up, then. Ah, would you mind terribly if I sat down, my dear?” He gestured weakly at the dining chairs pushed against the wall behind him. “When you get to my age, the legs tire easily.”

She narrowed her eyes, considering. “Fine. But talk. And don’t call me dear, or I might shoot you anyway.”

“Thank you. Apologies.” He walked slowly across the room and sat heavily. “Okay. The painting. No point trying to deny it now. I confess, we are very interested in your painting.”

He sighed and leaned far forward, rubbing wearily at his forehead. As he did, Alex saw him lift both feet slightly, bracing the soles of his boots hard and flat against the front legs of the chair he sat in. Alex realized the old man was still wearing his spring-heels.

“You see, thing is—” Alex’s grandfather said. Then he rocketed across the room in a flashing gray blur.

The force of his launch smashed the chair into a shower of splinters behind him as he cannoned headfirst into the man in the wheelchair, sending him rolling backward at a speed that knocked the woman to the floor. A deafening stray shot went off as the guns fell skidding from their hands and the wheelchair tipped over on top of her, leaving the pair struggling in a tangled heap.

By the time the woman had jumped up, Alex’s grandfather had collected their weapons and the others from the table, and was in the process of casually pouring himself a drink from an ornate round bottle on the cart. Leaning the shotguns against the trolley, he lifted the bowl-like glass, sniffed it, sipped, and sighed contentedly.

“Oh, unbelievable cognac, well done. Now—” he began.

“Sic, Maia,” the woman said. The next thing Alex knew, he had been pushed roughly back against the wall behind her. The largest of the dogs stood on its hind legs with its huge front paws on his chest, pinning him there. It weighed more than he would have thought possible. Its mouth was drooling against his neck.

“Guns back, please.” She smiled at the old man, extending her hand. “Or I’m afraid Maia will rip the boy’s throat out.”

“Oh, I can’t imagine she’d do a thing like that. Splendid dog like her?” The old man twirled the pistol carelessly on one finger and took another unconcerned swig of brandy. “And anyway—” He muttered something Alex didn’t catch. One word, repeated seven times.

“Grandad?” Alex said. The dog lifted its head until they were nose to nose. He caught the meaty flavor of its breath as it growled, long, low, and wet.

“I’m absolutely serious,” the woman said. “One word from me and—”

“C’mere, girl,” Alex’s grandfather said.