Sunset ^beta

Chapter Text

Gideon’s feet carried her across the room and then stopped her at the bar, right in front of Harrow Nonagesimus. She froze there for one terrifying moment, just long enough to reconsider the plan, the reckless stupidity of it all. Harrow hadn’t looked up yet. There was still time to turn back.

No. Come on. Reckless stupidity was practically the Nav M.O. Gideon was doing this.

She cleared her throat. Harrow ignored it. She was busy wiping circles into the top of the bar with a paper towel and for one hot awful second, Gideon thought that Harrow really might pretend not to see her, or worse (better?), that she really didn’t remember Gideon at all. And then Gideon’s mouth opened without her full permission. She tried to speak and nothing came out. She cleared her throat again and this time Harrow looked up, eyes black and so damn cold.

“Yes?”

Harrow didn’t wait for Gideon to respond. Her eyes slid back to the bar and she resumed wiping down the polished wood.

Gideon stared at Harrow like the idiot Harrow had always assumed she was, mouth open and kinda gaping. She searched for her old anchors, the places on Harrow’s face where Gideon could look and still feel a little grounded, but with Harrow’s head down and the glasses, those spots were hard to find. Which sounded weird, but—okay, so Harrow had two moles on the side of her nose and one on her cheek. They were the flat kind that looked like big freckles. One of them was on the bridge of her nose, right beside her right eye, and then a smaller one just below that. The one on her cheek was on the other side, below her left eye and closer to her nose than to her ear. They were like beauty marks or whatever, except Gideon didn’t like to use the words ‘beauty’ and ‘Harrow’ in the same sentence ever, thanks. And for some reason, when Gideon thought about Harrow--hardly ever, always awful—she thought specifically of those freckles on Harrow’s nose first. Gideon used to look at the marks on Harrow’s face when she needed to look at Harrow but couldn’t stand to look her in the eye.

Now the frame of Harrow’s prescriptionless glasses rested right over the mole on Harrow’s cheek. The bridge covered the one by her right eye and—no, okay. Okay, so the smallest one was there, nearly obscured by the glasses, but still visible, good enough. Gideon latched on, took comfort in that little partially exposed spot.

Harrow raised her eyebrows and the mark disappeared beneath the glasses with the others. Gideon blinked. “I know you didn’t forget how to talk, Griddle. No one’s that lucky.”

Ha, right, so everything really was exactly the same. Total bitch. Worse than Tridentarius.

Also, definitely hadn’t forgotten Gideon.

Gideon squared her shoulders. She was fine. She had this. “I need a Garnet Crow—” She paused. “—for my date, and a—” Gideon stopped just short of ordering another beer. The Locked Tomb had a list of intricate cocktails that were extremely tedious to make—for anyone other than Harrow anyway. Even so, why order another beer when she could make Harrow light springs of rosemary on fire to fill a glass with smoke?

“And a what?” Harrow prodded. That was exactly the same too. Harrow was still as impatient as ever.

Gideon reached for one of the drink menus placed along the bar. The Locked Tomb’s menu was always changing, always evolving, but when Gideon actually looked down at the printed list, she found that there was very little that was new. She could make almost every one of the drinks listed from memory, wouldn’t even need to glance at Harrow’s overly detailed instruction sheets. Gideon frowned down at the menu, checked to make sure there wasn’t another page she was missing. No, she wasn’t missing anything. That was it. Gideon slapped it back down onto the bar. ”What the fuck, Harrow. This menu has hardly changed since I left.”

Harrow shifted. “A Garnet Crow and a what?”

Right, well, now Gideon had no choice but to stall. She set down the menu and propped one arm on the bar, then took her time looking around the place, as though for the first time since she’d arrived.

“The lights have changed though. It’s darker down here than I remember,” Gideon said. Harrow nodded. “Less crowded.” Harrow nodded again, and Gideon tapped her fingers against the menu. “Okay, seriously, you’ve had nothing new to add to this thing in two years?”

Harrow stared hard at Gideon, hard enough that Gideon couldn’t just look away, couldn’t just focus on the moles or beauty marks or whatever on Harrow’s nose instead. “Are you going to order?” Harrow asked. “I am working. I’m busy. I don’t have time for this or for you.”

“Ouch,” Gideon said, even though the words failed to hit their intended mark. In fact, they hardly hurt at all. That was a nice change. “Okay, so make the Garnet Crow while I decide.”

Harrow’s glare was laced with sharp shards of glass and crazy sharp daggers, but Gideon somehow managed to dodge (like, emotionally) and they failed to cut. Fuck, that felt good. It felt really good to be free of the Tomb and immune to its Cryptkeeper.

Gideon held onto the menu, but she barely looked at it. She couldn’t help herself. She’d always liked to watch Harrow work. The thing was—the thing was, bartending wasn’t much different than dealing cards, and the way Corona told it, that wasn’t much different from being a star showgirl at the Mithraeum. Bartenders were performers too. A good bartender was comfortable starting a conversation, provided they weren’t busy. A good bartender knew how to throw in a smile and lean in close, make a patron feel like they were the favorite of the night, the only person in the entire place. Gideon had been good at that.

Harrow didn’t even try.

There was more to it though. There were the smiles, the lean, but there was also the confidence. Gideon was pretty good at feigning confidence, at least on the job. Not so much right now. Still, a bit of blatant innuendo, some lighthearted ribbing, a wink. Everyone loved a cocky bartender.

Harrow wasn’t that either.

Harrow was an alchemist. A mixologist. A mastermind. Harrow was the entire fucking menu of this place. Gideon couldn’t piss Harrow off by ordering a complicated drink, because those complicated drinks were Harrow’s children. She took them seriously, each and every one.

Gideon hadn’t been bad at this job. She earned her tips, hardly ever received a complaint, but she was always subpar to Harrow. Harrow took one straw-drawn sip of a drink Gideon mixed and immediately rattled off a list of every misstep, each imprecise measurement. She stood behind that bar with her back straight and her crisp little tie, with her pointless glasses pushed up on her nose. She rarely smiled at anyone. She was abysmal at small talk. She took the position seriously and she had no time for smiles or winks. That was Gideon’s realm.

Ianthe made her tips by being a nasty bitch—there were people who loved that, apparently—but for Harrow, success rested entirely on skill. And it wasn’t just technical skill. There was artistry there too. Harrow had devotees. They came and they sat at the bar and they requested something new, an off-menu creation. Dealer’s choice. Harrow asked a short list of essential questions about taste and allergies, and then Harrow performed. She created. And she wrote each step of every creation down in a small notebook she kept stashed in the pocket of her apron.

The part that had always confused Gideon, the part that never seemed to fit, was that Harrow didn’t even like the drinks she made. She tasted them all with the dip of a straw, her thumb over the end. A few drops on her tongue, an adjustment here or there. She did it impassively, and her face never twisted regardless of flavor or tone, but in the early hours of the morning, when the doors were locked and the lights were on, she admitted—just the once—that she’d never liked the taste of anything she’d ever made.

“Why do it the way that you do then?” Gideon asked, years ago. The level of attention Harrow bestowed on a drink wasn’t necessary. Most people who frequented The Locked Tomb weren’t looking for alchemy. They just wanted to get drunk and maybe get laid, same as any other bar in the city.

Harrow didn’t have a good answer for her then. Now Harrow slid Corona’s drink across the bar toward Gideon and said, “What else.”

Gideon leaned back to look down the length of the bar toward her date. Corona and Judith were still deep in conversation. It looked a lot friendlier than Gideon’s own trip down memory lane. She turned back toward Harrow and stared at the smallest spot on Harrow’s nose as she said, “Dealer’s choice.”

“What?”

“Dealer’s choice,” Gideon said. She gestured back toward the bottles behind the bar. Gideon was suddenly feeling very brave, and she shifted her gaze, looking Harrow right in the eyes. “You know, make me whatever you want.”

“No,” Harrow said, with a shake of her head. She didn’t look away, but she looked like she really wanted to. That was one way they were alike. Harrow also hated to run. “I don’t do that anymore.”

Weird, but that explained why the menu hadn’t changed. “Why the hell not? It was the only thing I actually liked about this place.” Gideon stopped short of adding, “You were good at it.” Harrow didn’t need her ego stroked.

“I just don’t,” Harrow said. She took off her glasses—there were all those missing marks!—wiped the lenses on her shirt and then put them back on her face. “Pick a standard or something off the menu.”

Gideon pressed her hands against the edge of the bar and leaned forward, brow furrowed. “Come on, Harrow. You used to love that shit.”

Harrow pushed her glasses up on her nose, pressed them back against her face with one finger as she closed her eyes. “You don’t know me, Griddle. You never did. Don’t pretend you know the first thing about what I love.”

Not true. Gideon knew that Harrow loved being a cold fucking bitch. Harrow loved knocking everyone around her down a peg or ten. Gideon knew that Harrow loved—

“And stop doing press ups against my bar. I hate it when you show off.”

Harrow loved reminding everyone that at the end of the day, The Locked Tomb was hers.

Gideon stopped doing press ups against Harrow’s bar as Harrow grabbed a glass and turned away.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m making you a drink,” Harrow said, her voice low and irritated.

Dealer’s choice. Yeah, sure, Gideon didn’t know the first fucking thing! She watched as Harrow studied the rows of bottles lining the wall.

“Something with gin,” Gideon suggested, and then watched as Harrow pulled down a dark rum followed by a coconut rum instead. Okay, so full bartender’s choice then, no input. That was fine too. Gideon could do tropical and anyway—she really couldn’t believe her brain was thinking this, but—she actually trusted Harrow when it came to a mixed drink. Nothing else. Absolutely nothing else. But a mixed drink? Yeah, she could trust Harrow with that.

Harrow added the coconut rum to the glass, picked up the dark rum and then put it back down. She was chewing her bottom lip in concentration. Probably because she started with coconut rum, of all things. Gideon remembered how Harrow used to chew her bottom lip red and raw on the difficult nights. There shouldn’t be anything difficult about this. This was Harrow’s zone, unless—Gideon considered that Harrow might be trying to make the drink bad, a sort of punishment for Gideon’s sudden appearance and her presumptuous request. Gideon was surprised to realize that that was okay with her too. It’d hurt Harrow more than it hurt Gideon.

“You said you were here with a date?” Harrow asked. Her eyes flicked up toward Gideon and then immediately back down again. “I’m surprised, Griddle.”

Gideon waited for the rest. Something like “So which is it, Griddle? Is she deaf or just shallow?” and then Gideon would say, “Why do you say shallow? You think I’m so hot, people might date me just for my looks?” And Harrow would get all flustered and Gideon would grin, as big and wide as her mouth would go. She might even wink just to really piss Harrow off.

“What’s wrong with your face? I’m just surprised you’re here bothering me while your date is all over someone else.”

Gideon wiped a hand down her face in an attempt to get her expressions under control, and then narrowed her eyes. “Nice try, Cryptkeeper.” She resisted the urge to check on Corona and kept watching Harrow instead. Harrow pushed aside the coconut rum and grabbed another glass. “She’s Ianthe’s sister, apparently.”

“No shit,” Harrow said, in a tone that made it difficult to guess whether Harrow was actually surprised. She moved her glassware and bottles to the counter opposite the bar and then pulled another bottle down from the wall. Gideon didn’t catch what it was, and when Harrow carefully obscured it with her body, Gideon understood where they were headed.

Harrow loved a lot of awful things, and one of the awful things Harrow loved was tests. She turned her head to look back at Gideon over her shoulder. “Ianthe’s sister picked the location?”

“Obviously,” Gideon agreed. “You know I never would have—” She suddenly felt a bit like she might get snapped at for slacking on the job, an eerie feeling, a ghost breathing down her neck. She checked over her shoulder and found no one there, just the bar and the portraits and Corona laughing at something Judith said. Gideon shivered. “No Crux today?”

“Haven’t seen him tonight.” Harrow grabbed for the coconut rum again.

“Not dead though,” Gideon guessed.

“No.”

That was good. The last thing The Locked Tomb needed was Crux haunting the place. “Shame.”

Harrow grunted. The drink came together quickly after that. Harrow gave it three shakes—always Gideon’s favorite part of the entire process, a mini arm workout that could be done on the job—and poured it into a tumbler. Next came Harrow’s taste test. She slipped a short straw into the drink and pressed her thumb to the top. Gideon watched as Harrow dripped the drink onto her tongue. Gideon felt a slight rush, her heart fluttered strangely, and she realized she was nervous again. After a moment of consideration, Harrow nodded. The glass she pushed toward Gideon looked pale and almost milky, like water so cold it was about to turn to ice.

“What is it?” Gideon asked, though she’d played this game often enough that she knew the question wouldn’t get her anywhere.

“Dealer’s Choice,” Harrow said, simply. “You tell me.”

Gideon sniffed the glass. She smelled the rum and—”Ginger beer or ginger ale.” Gideon sipped the drink, held it pooled on her tongue for just a moment. Huh, okay. When Harrow pulled down the rums Gideon expected something fruity, and there was a bit of fruit there, but just a hint. The rest was—”Shit, Harrow.”

“Well?”

“Coconut rum, dark rum—” (“Obviously.”) “—ginger beer.” Gideon took another sip. “Pineapple?”

Harrow nodded. She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the back counter. The glasses really did finish off Harrow’s look of appraisal and superiority.

“And there’s something like—” Gideon sipped the drink again. It was actually really fucking good. Cold and surprisingly spicy, just a hint of licorice, which seemed like it shouldn’t work at all, but somehow— “Sambuca?”

“No.”

Gideon snapped her fingers. “Absinthe.”

“Hm,” Harrow said. She pulled her notebook from her apron and started scribbling. Gideon suddenly felt like no time had passed at all, like things had never been rotten, like she’d never left swearing up and down that she’d never set foot in this shithole again.

“This is…it’s okay.” A definite downplay. “It’s like what ice would taste like if ice was a little spicy and made with rum.”

“Spicy ice,” Harrow repeated. “Inspired as always, Nav, thanks.”

That was the moment Corona chose to return to Gideon’s side. “There you are,” Corona said, a little breathless. She pressed a hand to Gideon’s back and leaned in close toward Gideon’s ear. She smelled like cake, all sweet and vanilla. “I saw the booth empty and I thought—well, I thought I’d just royally fucked everything up.”

“No,” Gideon smiled, though she felt off kilter now, like she’d forgotten how to flirt and even her smile was somehow wrong and off. She looked over toward Harrow and found her still focused on scrawling out her notes on the spicy ice drink. Gideon picked up the Garnet Crow and presented it to Corona. “I got you another drink.”

“Oh!” Corona said. She lifted the drink she held in her hand, smiled a bit sheepishly, then downed it in one long gulp. Harrow made a pained sound at the sight of someone chugging one of her creations, thus confirming that she wasn’t actually as absorbed in her notes as she appeared. Corona ignored Harrow and tipped her empty glass toward Gideon before setting it down. “Thank you.”

The Corona that returned to Gideon didn’t seem like a Corona who had quenched the need to catch up with an old friend and was ready to return her focus to getting to know a first date. She seemed like a person who still had unfinished business and had been dragged away too soon. Gideon took a sip of her spicy ice drink and considered her options. They could push forward, both distracted, and see where they came out. But what they were doing now—Corona and Gideon, flanked by Harrow and Judith, with Ianthe Tridentarius watching it all play out—was a recipe for an awkward disaster, and Gideon had already faced enough awkward disaster for one night. If they recognized that now and took a loss, maybe they could salvage this later on.

“Listen,” Gideon said, certain she’d both lost her mind and was making the right choice. “This isn’t really fair, is it?”

Corona’s smile fell, just a fraction, the corners of her beautiful mouth drooping. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, the way the night’s working out, it isn’t really giving us a fair shot. You’re distracted by your friend, I’m distracted by—” here Gideon waved a hand to encompass all of The Locked Tomb. She made sure she included Harrow in the gesture. “I’m not on my game here. I left my game back at the door.”

Corona took a deep breath. Her smile was back in full force and she shook her head, brow furrowed. “If this is Gideon Nav off her game, I’m not sure I could handle you on it.” That was very kind, but based on the snort that emanated from their audience, it was definitely trying too hard. Corona side-eyed Harrow in a way that confirmed she’d been here often enough that Harrow definitely already knew she was Ianthe’s sister. Finally, Corona gave in and sighed. “Of course, you’re right.”

“Go back to catching up with your friend,” Gideon suggested. “Really. I’ll escape the Tomb a second time, and then, if you still want to—”

“Of course. I want to,” Corona said this in a rush. She sounded serious, earnest. “We’ll reschedule, and I swear I’ll let you choose the location next time. Beforehand, no surprises.”

“That sounds good. With our luck, I pick the next place and it’s the one spot in town that still shows up in your nightmares.”

Corona seemed unsure what to really say to that other than a series of ‘ohs’ and ‘nos’ and Gideon wished that she could take it back, that her mouth didn’t move faster than her brain at exactly the wrong moments.

“No, it’s fine,” Gideon said. “I swear. Sorry, I’m… off my game.” So fucking lame.

“Me too,” Corona agreed. “And maybe that’s good too. I might be a mess tonight, but now I know you’re sweet, even off your game.” She pressed her drink into Gideon’s hand, and then pressed a kiss to the corner of Gideon’s mouth. “Thank you,” she said, low and intimate.

“You’re welcome,” Gideon returned, a little dumbstruck and a lot dazed. She sat there, unmoving, unable to even turn and watch Corona walk away. When she did turn, she turned toward Harrow.

“You’re welcome,” Harrow mimicked with a nasty twist to her mouth. Her face was all crumpled up like she was staring at an incomprehensible puzzle with pieces that were never designed to fit.

“What?”

“You’re an even bigger idiot than I thought you were.”

That broke Corona’s spell a little and Gideon felt her shoulders relax. She laughed. “Maybe,” she agreed, but she didn’t really think so.

Harrow wasn’t finished. She scoffed. “Off your game, Griddle? Come now. My dog has more game than you.”

“Yeah, okay, the thing is, you’ve never actually seen my game, have you? You might not know the first thing about it, but Corona knows. The Mithraeum knows. I’ve got game, Harrow. Think about that.”

“I don’t have the inclination or the time to waste thinking about you. I’ve seen more than enough.”

Gideon shrugged and took a slow sip of her drink. She tipped her glass toward Harrow, who stood there with an expression like a brewing storm. “What are you going to call this when you add it to the menu?” A Brewing Storm actually seemed like it might be fitting.

“Nothing,” Harrow said, too quickly. “The menu stays as is.”

Gideon shrugged again. “Turns out you’re a bigger idiot than I thought you were too.”

Gideon didn’t go straight from the office of Juno Zeta to the inconspicuous door leading down to the Tomb. She should have. She should have made Cam come with her. She should have gone right away and pushed the papers into Harrow’s hand. Instead, when Cam asked if Gideon wanted to ‘get this over with’ Gideon said, “It’s my night to make dinner.” And that was what she did. She went home with her papers and with Cam and she grilled some chicken and she tossed together a caesar salad from a couple bags. She cracked jokes about Pal’s mom and revelled in the way Dulcie lit up at the sight of his flushed face and stumbling responses.

And then three days later Gideon pressed her thumb to the buzzer beside the unmarked door, just a few blocks from the Mithraeum.

“I pray that the Tomb is shut forever.” The truth in those words!

The door clicked and Gideon rushed down the stairs.

It was early and the Tomb was quiet, just a few people at the bar and maybe half the booths occupied. Ortus was behind the bar, and he actually looked pretty relaxed, a testament to the late afternoon lull. There was no immediate sign of Harrow, no shadowy goblins lurking in the corners, and Gideon felt her body relax. She shifted the bag she’d slung over her shoulder, the divorce papers neatly placed in a folder within, then sighed and approached her old buddy Ortus.

“Hey,” Gideon said, sliding onto a stool. Ortus startled. His sad mouth twitched, and for a moment she thought he might actually smile at the sight of her. Ortus always looked like he took his job so seriously with his starched white shirt and his dark vest and tie, but in truth he was only there because his father had worked there back when Crux was merely a manager and Harrow’s parents ran the place. He was only there because it was a sure thing, a job that would pay the bills while Ortus puttered away at his masterpiece, some sprawling fantasy novel that did not include sorceresses kissing the knuckles of badass butch warriors in thanks for battles won, and therefore was of little interest to Gideon. “Harrow around?”

“Ianthe said you’d returned and I didn’t believe her,” Ortus said. He was staring at her now as though he’d seen a goddamn ghost. “And now here you are, alive and in the flesh.”

Gideon paused. “Ortus, did they tell you I died?”

She could picture it. She could picture Crux and Harrow calling a meeting, gathering everyone together before the bar opened. Blah blah, Nav is no longer with us, blah blah, a sacrifice for the Tomb. Weird solemn stuff acting as if Gideon had kicked it, like maybe they’d actually offed her just because she refused to work in this hellhole another second.

“Well, of course not literally,” Ortus clarified, “but with the circumstances surrounding your leaving, I never expected to see you again, and certainly not here.” As though Ortus knew a damn factual thing about the circumstances surrounding Gideon’s leaving.

“Yeah, it’s pretty unbelievable,” Gideon agreed, “but for once Tridentarius was telling the truth.”

“Why?” It was an unusually short and straightforward sentence coming from Ortus Nigenad.

“My wife works here,” Gideon said, because it was Ortus, and for some reason shrugging the whole thing off and acting like it was nothing in front of Ortus was easier than it would be in front of anyone else. Gideon thought about just leaving the folder of papers with Ortus. Unlike Ianthe, she actually kinda trusted that Ortus would give Harrow the folder without reading the contents first. “Harrow isn’t here today?”

“She’s in the back.” He glanced down at his watch. “She’ll return momentarily.”

Gideon nodded. She looked Ortus up and down, then she smiled. “Miss me?”

“Not in the slightest,” Ortus said, gravely.

Gideon couldn’t help herself. She laughed. She was still laughing when Harrow emerged from the back with three bottles of wine tucked tight beneath her arm.

Gideon wasn’t ready. She looked directly at Harrow, right in those dark dark eyes. She expected to feel a jolt, a poison jab. It didn’t come. Instead Harrow stumbled, her foot catching on a floor mat. The bottles slid beneath her arms and Gideon jumped up from her stool as one started to slip. Harrow swore and shifted, just barely caught hold of the bottles before they crashed to the floor. She recovered with a gasp, and the adrenaline of the moment had Gideon’s insides twitching, a strange giddy dance. It didn’t last long. Once recovered, Harrow immediately returned to her normal hard and angry state.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, after what felt like a myriad. “I told you not to come.”

“Yeah,” Gideon agreed. She was going for light, confident, and she hoped no one heard the slight waiver in her voice. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t have to do what you tell me to do anymore. Especially considering—” Harrow shook her head, too fast, desperate. She tilted her chin repeatedly toward Ortus. “—everything.”

Ortus cleared his throat.

“I might have already given that one away,” Gideon admitted. And: “Sorry.”

She wasn’t actually that sorry.

“So a moment ago,” Ortus started, carefully.

“No,” cut in Harrow, hard, fast, but Ortus continued anyway.

“You said that your wife worked here, and I dismissed this as a joke. Surely when you said wife, even joking, you didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, I meant Harrow.”

“Nav,” Harrow warned, aghast.

“Don’t Nav me, Harrow. I’m not going to pretend I understand how this happened, but it took both of us to get here.”

“Congratulations,” Ortus choked out. He looked all bound up, totally constipated and completely tying himself in knots trying to decide if he should be happy for them or horrified. Gideon understood his dilemma. But also, he should be horrified. The correct response was definitely horror.

Harrow set down the wine bottles and pressed a curled fist to her forehead. “How hard is it, Griddle? All you had to do was stay away. That’s it! That’s all I asked. We don’t speak of it, you don’t call, you don’t come find me. Just stay away and pretend none of it ever happened! And what do you do? You call, you come find me—” She marked off each infraction on her fingers and then gave up and waved a tense hand in Ortus’s direction. “And you speak of it! This is why you were an awful bartender, and it’s why you’re undoubtedly awful at dealing cards too. You can’t even be bothered to follow such simple instructions.”

Oh, it was on. “If I’m so awful at everything, why the fuck did you marry me? It doesn’t add up, Harrow. There’s obviously something you think I’m pretty damn good at. It’s not bartending, not dealing cards, so hm, wonder what it could possibly be!”

Harrow’s mouth snapped shut and her whole face flushed dark. It was almost worth it. It was almost worth shutting Harrow down, except in doing so she’d dealt damage against herself too. They both understood Gideon’s implication. They both remembered at least some of that night.

Harrow’s hot little hands digging into Gideon’s shoulders, Harrow pulling Gideon’s head down into a kiss.

Gideon wondered, suddenly, what might happen if Ortus wasn’t there. If there wasn’t a bar separating them and patrons trying to enjoy the relative quiet of the afternoon. If—No, nope! Sorry, no. Gideon refused. She refused to picture Harrow grabbing Gideon by the front of her shirt, or shoving Gideon back against the back counter, bottles shaking and threatening to fall. That way madness lies.

It was sad, anyway, unrealistic and badly characterized. It was laughable. Harrow wasn’t that strong! Now if Gideon was in this situation with Corona—

If she was in this situation with Corona, she imagined it all playing out much much differently.

Back in her awful married-to-Harrow reality, smoke was about to start streaming from Harrow’s ears and when she spoke her words were scary low and so tight with tension that Ortus actually flinched. “That took both of us too.”

Harrow was very close to snapping. If Gideon wasn’t careful, Harrow might actually come after her, might launch herself up and over the bar, her fingers wrapped tight around Gideon’s throat.

Harrow, Gideon noted, wasn’t wearing her ring either.

Gideon wasn’t in the mood to be careful. She shrugged. “Yeah, but who started it?” It was an actual question and Gideon really would like to know the answer. She knew who started it the first time, the very first time it happened, years ago, bottles shaking and threatening to fall. What she didn’t understand was, which of them was stupid enough to start it all again? The bits she remembered suggested it was Harrow, but there were still a lot of bits that felt very fuzzy.

Harrow glared at Gideon for one long drawn out moment, and then she turned and pointed to a man at the end of the bar, glass empty. “You. You need another drink.”

“Uh, sure,” the guy said. He slid his glass toward Harrow.

And that was that. Harrow buried herself in her work, the picture of a solemn and serious bartender, skilled and attentive. Just don’t expect a conversation.

On Gideon’s end of the bar, Ortus watched them both with big sad dog eyes. He had a towel slung over his shoulder and he adjusted it every time it threatened to slide off. They weren’t technically allowed to use cloth towels, something about bacteria build up, but Ortus always insisted on wearing it anyway. It was an important part of his aesthetic. In truth, Gideon understood the appeal and she’d even tried it a few times. The towel did nothing but get her in trouble. She couldn’t resist playfully snapping it at whoever she was working with that night. She aimed a little too well and hit Harrow’s flat ass exactly once and that was it. Banned from wearing the cool towel for life. No one in the Tomb was ever any fun.

There wasn’t much point in staying now.

She’d arrived with one purpose and immediately fucked it all up, foot shoved resolutely into her mouth. If she’d kept her trap shut, said nothing to Ortus and pulled Harrow aside at the first chance, Harrow might have appreciated the discretion. She might have been receptive to accepting the papers. They could have sat down in the corner booth, looking carefully anywhere except at each other while they read through it together. They could have finished it all then and there.

That wasn’t happening now. Harrow would take her to court before she sat down across a table from Gideon. Harrow would make sure Gideon never wriggled free. Gideon needed another plan. She needed—

“What the fuck did I ever see in you?” Gideon asked the air, louder than she meant to. Ortus responded by pushing a shot glass across the bar toward her. Gideon accepted it, raised the glass to Ortus, and threw it back. Free whiskey from Ortus, who recognized a sad sack when he saw one. Wonderful. A new low. Gideon seriously contemplated just being done with it all, just throwing the papers across the bar at Harrow and then dealing with the fallout.

But if she did that, she’d always wondered how they let it happen at all. She’d never know.

Okay, so, fine, Gideon could play this game too. Gideon could bide her time, wait for the right moment. She wanted to know how it all happened and why. She needed to know, so she’d wait. She’d wait, and when the moment was right, she’d bring up the divorce. They were so wrongly matched, it wouldn’t take long. Every moment was the right moment for divorce when it came to Gideon and Harrow. She just needed an in. She just needed—Gideon tapped her fingers against the bar, forehead furrowed as she went over everything she remembered of that night. Corona’s hand gripping her arm, Ianthe’s sneer, Harrow with her back toward Gideon, mixing a drink. Corona left with Judith and Gideon stayed—why the fuck did she stay—and when Harrow’s shift ended, she—

Shit, okay. That was it. That was why she found Harrow standing outside the Mithras Market staring at a notice board. Harrow, though almost definitely a slob, wasn’t looking for a housekeeper. Gideon stared hard at Harrow’s back and noted a clump of pale hair that clung to the shoulder of Harrow’s black shirt. Her eyes shifted to the shelf below the cash register where someone had stashed two lint rollers.

Gideon knew exactly what she needed to do.

Gideon bent down behind Palamedes, one hand propped on the edge of his desk as she read the words on the computer screen over his shoulder. He stroked his chin, considered the format and phrasing. Eventually he turned his head, nearly colliding with Gideon’s too-close face, and said, “Do you actually want another job?”

“Of course not,” Gideon scoffed. She stood up, stepped back to give Palamedes some space to breathe. “I just want to figure out the game Harrow’s playing.”

“Right,” Palamedes agreed. “And Harrow does have your phone number, correct?”

Probably. Unless she deleted it after Gideon’s last call. It hadn’t changed though, so yeah, Harrow could find her number easily enough. “Yeah, why?”

Palamedes nodded and resumed typing. Gideon crowded back in and when it came time to type Gideon’s phone number, the number that Palamedes typed was just slightly off. “No, that’s wrong.”

Palamedes looked over at her, obviously disappointed. It was the face he made when Gideon was missing something so blatantly obvious that even Dulcinea’s cat understood before Gideon caught up. Palamedes was a lot like Harrow that way. Just nicer about the fact that he was a fucking genius.

“It’s wrong so I don’t end up getting calls from the entire neighborhood,” Gideon translated, putting the pieces together. She stared at the sign, read through the advertisement, recreated almost word-for-word from a similar one she’d found via an internet search on her phone and pushed into Pal’s face, and then pointed toward her name. “Put ‘Griddle’ instead.”

“Griddle,” Palamedes repeated, slowly, as though trying to get used to the feel of the word.

“Yeah, I know it’s awful, but she’ll get it and she’ll know that it’s me.”

Pal replaced ‘Call Gideon’ with ‘Call Griddle.’ He sat back in the chair and it creaked dramatically beneath him. “I think that’s it then, except for one thing.”

“Nah, this looks great,” Gideon said. “It’s exactly what I was going for.”

“The one thing is a question,” Palamedes clarified. “Why are you trying to lure Harrowhark into calling you if you aren’t interested in continuing with the marriage? Why put me through the torture of visiting my mother if you aren’t going to follow through with the annulment?”

Now it was Gideon’s turn to look at Palamedes as though he was a complete moron. “Because I don’t get how we got here,” Gideon said.

“According to Camilla, you spent more than an hour on that dance floor with your tongue down Harrow’s throat,” Palamedes said. “I imagine that had something to do with it.”

“Okay, first, gross, and second, if it was just—” what had Dulcie called it? “—friendly hate sex or whatever, maybe that would make sense.” (It wouldn’t make sense.) “But we didn’t even have sex! We just went and got married.”

“And you think walking Harrow’s mystery dog is going to help you understand why you married her.”

“Maybe!” She’d never understand any of it if the only interaction they had was inside the Tomb. The Tomb raised defenses. It brought out the worst in everyone. Gideon needed to meet Harrow outside of that space, needed to meet Harrow away from Crux and Ianthe and Ortus, away from the portrait of her parents and the notebook of recipes. She needed to see Harrow in real daylight and real darkness.

Outside of the Tomb, Harrow had a dog. It was confirmation that Gideon didn’t know the first thing about the woman she married, the woman she’d worked alongside for six long years. A dog!

Palamedes accepted Gideon’s “Maybe!” with a sigh. He sent the document to his printer and handed Gideon a pair of scissors. She could tell that it bothered him that he didn’t know Harrow, that he didn’t know enough about the person Gideon had married to just offer stellar advice and be done with it. He couldn’t offer insight into Harrow’s character because he didn’t know the first thing about Harrow’s character. Maybe that’d be the next step. If the dog thing didn’t work, Gideon could deploy Palamedes Sextus. Just bring him to the unmarked door and set him loose down the stairs, see what he came back with. He’d have to go alone. Harrow would recognize Camilla, but it wouldn’t be all bad. Gideon could send him in armed, and frankly, Pal would absolutely love ordering mystery cocktails from Harrow and then deducing the ingredients. He’d guess everything exactly right the first time. He’d really piss Harrow off.

Something to consider. In the meantime, Gideon accepted the scissors and grabbed the printed sheet from Pal’s printer. She had a notice to post.

Gideon Nav, dog walker.