Page 28 of The Witch & the Hound
And for the first time in a year, maybe the first time in my life, I believed that someone meant it.
Chapter 12
Maggie
The menu was the kind of expensive where they didn't list prices, just poetic descriptions of locally sourced ingredients that somehow justified charging a mortgage payment for scallops.
I tried not to think about it.
Bram was reading his menu with the same intense focus he probably used for inventory spreadsheets at SuperMart. His brow furrowed slightly at "compressed melon with prosciutto dust."
"What's wrong with regular melon?" he muttered.
I bit back a smile. "Too pedestrian."
"It's fruit."
"Compressed fruit."
He looked up at me, deadpan. "How do you compress a melon?"
"Very carefully?"
The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Victory.
Our server appeared, a young man with an earnest face and a name tag that read "Trevor." He launched into the evening's specials with the enthusiasm of someone who'd been coached extensively.
"—and our chef has prepared a pan-seared halibut with a fennel-forward reduction and microgreens harvested from our rooftop garden—"
I caught Bram's eye across the table. His expression said:microgreens?
Mine said:Just go with it.
I ordered the halibut because it sounded the least likely to arrive deconstructed. Bram ordered steak—"Just steak. However it comes"—which made Trevor pause, then recover with professional grace.
When Trevor left with our orders, Bram leaned back in his chair, tail making a small adjustment. His gaze drifted to the window, to the ocean rolling dark against the rocks below.
"I've never been here," he said quietly. "Drove past it a hundred times. Never came in."
"Too expensive?"
"Too..." He searched for the word. "Formal. Places like this, they notice when you're different."
"They're noticing now," I pointed out.
"Yes." He looked at me. "But you're here. That makes it different."
Before I could figure out how to respond, his attention caught on something at the edge of our table. A small tri-fold brochure tucked between the salt shaker and the candle, glossy paper with a ship's wheel embossed on the front.
The Captain's Table: A Historic Seaview Landmark
He picked it up, flipping it open. I watched his expression shift as he read, curiosity, then something that looked like skepticism.
"It says the restaurant was built on the site of Captain James Hood's estate," he said. "A distinguished naval officer who helped establish Seaview's maritime trade routes in the 1700s. Beloved by the community. Pillar of the town." He looked up. "Why do I sense there's more to this story?"
I grinned. "Because there's always more to the story."
"Tell me."
