Dorian had given Gretta the restaurant address, which, according to her GPS, was a large residential home nestled between two affluent neighborhoods and a high-end shopping and dining strip. She had never heard of Le Jardin éternel and had questioned her judgment even as she followed the directions onto a winding side street.

  To her surprise, the restaurant appeared ahead. Valet attendants stood at the entrance, and a spacious parking lot stretched to the side. The restaurant itself looked like a cluster of buildings, seamlessly woven together with outdoor seating. Pergolas and trellises provided shade and privacy for those who wanted it. Beyond the restaurant, a sprawling garden extended over the rolling foothills. Soft lights flickered among the trees and shrubs, already glowing despite the sun not yet fully set. Guests sat at elegant tables, their plates vibrant with food, their faces relaxed in conversation.

  Gretta wondered if she had tip money as she pulled up, and cringed at the thought of spending her weekly coffee budget on a single tip.

  She drifted to a stop, and a valet walked to her door and waited. She took a breath. It was a public place. She had years of martial arts training. This was just for a job. Rowan was a jerk.

  When she opened her car door, floral scents drifted to her, sweet and fragrant. A mix of lilac and honey, something one didn’t get much of in Tucson. There was soft, soothing music from stringed instruments drifting through the air.

  She felt a prickle of warning, like she was in danger, and she looked around expecting to see a mountain lion or maybe a clown, but everywhere she looked were people smiling and talking against the soothing backdrop of nature, music, and floral scents.

  The valet waited, patient and polite. Too polite. Like he had all the time in the world. Like he expected her to take her time. Gretta hesitated, fingers tightening on the wheel. The Wild Mother was silent, her magic unreliable, and her idiot of a roommate was probably off charming coyotes somewhere in the desert. She was on her own. Again. A familiar feeling. She exhaled sharply and got out of the car.

  She handed her keys to the valet’s gloved hand. Without a proper valet key, her keyring held more than just the car’s key fob—it carried her apartment key, office key, and an assortment of others she no longer remembered the purpose of.

  As she fumbled, the keys slipped, bouncing off the valet’s wrist.

  A ripple crawled through her vision, like heat distortion bending the air—except this wasn’t heat. The valet’s face blurred, shifting just slightly, like a frame skipping in a faulty film reel.

  Gretta’s stomach twisted. She gripped the edge of her car door, grounding herself. A trick of the light? Maybe. But the sensation clung to her skin, sharp and electric, like static before a storm.

  “Are you okay, miss?” the valet asked, his voice perfectly smooth. Unbothered.

  Gretta swallowed. “Yeah, sorry. I slipped.”

  A wave washed through her, an unnatural pull, as if she owed the man something. He smiled as he slipped into her car. She watched him drive toward the lot, feeling a sense of wrongness—a sense that she should go now.

  “Miss Sullivan?” a woman wearing a staff outfit asked.

  Gretta turned. “That’s me.”

  “Mr. Voss asked me to guide you to your table,” she said.

  “Mr. Voss?” Gretta asked.

  “Mr. Dorian Voss,” she said.

  Gretta remembered Dorian’s card, which she had only cursorily looked at and had accidentally left at her office desk. She chided herself. A detective that doesn’t track the details. Great.

  The hostess smiled. “Follow me, if you will.”

  There was a subtle pull to those words, and a choice. Gretta shook her head. The place was almost too perfect. Maybe that’s what put her on edge. The laughter, the flickering lights, the scent of lilac and honey—everything orchestrated just right. Her instincts were telling her something was off—too perfect, too welcoming, like an invitation she hadn’t agreed to yet. But she was here for a job, not a mystery dinner.

  She followed the hostess.

  Candles on tables and in recesses flickered and glowed softly, and they walked through arching arbors with vines bearing colorful berries and fruits. Flagstones formed neat pathways through the well-trimmed sod between the buildings. She’d never heard of such a thing for a restaurant, especially not in Tucson. Sure, there were golf courses here and they worked hard at maintaining the grass, but an outdoor restaurant with grass? It was a marvel, but so were the lush plants that grew between tables, offering privacy and creating something of a maze that her guide led her through easily, but Gretta quickly realized she might not so easily find her way out of.

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  The soft murmur of people chattering, glass tinkling, and a burbling stream added the ambiance. What did it cost to maintain a burbling stream in Arizona?

  The hostess opened a door to one of the many small buildings, and held it for Gretta.

  Gretta entered and found a private area with five elegant tables, each with pairs of guests except one, where Dorian sat alone. He was watching her as she entered, his gaze steady. Too steady. The kind of confidence that made people lean in without realizing it. She straightened her shoulders. Focus.

  Paintings lined the walls, and shelves of books created semi-private nooks for diners. Dorian had a book on the table, which he placed neatly on the shelf after he stood. He gave a small bow as she walked up.

  “I’m pleased you accepted,” he said.

  Gretta smiled nervously. “Thanks for having me. This is… um…”

  “A lot?” he offered.

  Her smile turned to a grin. “A lot.”

  “Well, let me assure you that you will not find a finer meal in Tucson,” he said. “Shall we sit?”

  Gretta took her seat. The paintings along the walls caught her eye—fairy-tale scenes, lush and golden, too flawless to be old but painted like relics of another era. The characters in the artwork weren’t just adventurers. They were figures of myth. Legends.

  Something about them unsettled her, but the approach of the waiter pulled her focus before she could place why.

  The waiter placed two wine glasses down and began to fill them. Gretta raised a hand. “I don’t drink. Do you have water?”

  The waiter hesitated—just a fraction too long—then glanced at Dorian, who gave a slight nod. Gretta frowned at the exchange.

  “Of course,” the waiter said smoothly and walked away.

  “How does a bookseller afford such fine dining?” Gretta asked.

  Dorian smirked. “It helps one doesn’t rely on bookselling for expenses.”

  Gretta took in his fine clothing and polished look. Not overdone or flashy. Understated in a way that only somebody with money could pull off.

  He chuckled. “I see it in your eyes. You might suspect a spoiled man who came by his wealth through inheritance. I have not let old money define me, but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy a nice meal.”

  Gretta’s eyes narrow. “A place like this might cost more than my fee for finding your books.”

  The waiter returned with two additional glasses, each filled with sparkling clear water. He set them down on the table next to the half-filled wine glasses.

  “Sir, shall I bring out the first course?”

  Dorian gave a slight gesture of acknowledgement toward the waiter, but his eyes didn’t leave Gretta’s. The waiter gracefully slipped away.

  Gretta thought this was strange, nobody asked what she wanted, and how did they know she didn’t have allergies or something?

  “You act like you own the place,” Gretta said.

  Dorian took a sip of water.

  Gretta blinked. “You own this place?”

  “I enjoy fine food and fine company,” he said.

  Gretta took a sip of water. Cool. Refreshing. Too refreshing. A wave of calm rippled through her, smoothing over the tension coiled in her muscles. The nagging irritation at Rowan, the uncertainty of magic, the disarray of her apartment—all of it softened, dulled.

  She frowned at the glass. Clear. Scentless. Nothing but ordinary water.

  Another sip. The coolness soothed, like a tide lapping at the edges of her mind. But that only made her more alert. Water wasn’t supposed to do that.

  She set the glass down, glancing at Dorian, who watched her with an unreadable expression. Was he waiting for her to say something? There was more to life than dealing with magic and stupid trickster gods that can’t even pick up business cards.

  “We were going to talk about the missing books?” Gretta asked.

  “We were,” Dorian confirmed. “You have certainly been building a reputation of late as a detective, but I get the sense that you are more than that. I’m curious how you came to the profession.”

  Alarm bells were ringing. Did Dorian know of her magical escapades? He seemed like an ordinary person. She would have felt it when they shook hands if he had magic. She took another sip of water. She was clearly becoming paranoid, but she supposed a run in with an insane god will do that to you.

  “It’s a long story,” Gretta said, “but we really should talk about your books.”

  She didn’t want to talk about how her mother had abandoned her and her father, and Gretta had spent her life trying to build the skills and find the information to track her down, only to come to dead ends.

  As Gretta was thinking about her mother, she noticed a figure in the painting. It had the appearance of looking at her, that figure, with her blond hair and familiar blue eyes was sad. She knew that face. Not just her blurry memory of childhood, but from the picture she kept of her mother in her wallet.

  “What is it?” Dorian asked.

  Gretta looked to him and then back to the painting. She pointed at the figure of a woman by the queen, but to her surprise, the woman in the painting was no longer looking at her. Gretta’s hand hesitated and fell.

  “I think I’ve been working too hard,” she said. “I thought I saw…” She took another drink of water. “Let’s talk about your missing books.”

  The waiter returned and set plates of warm bread, honey, and butter in front of her and Dorian.

  Dorian reached down and picked up a slice. “Try some. It might be the most delicious bread on Earth.”

  Gretta buttered the bread and drizzled honey on it, and took a bite. It was the sensation of home and belonging baked into every tastebud. The taste hit her first—warm, rich, perfect. Then the feeling. A contentment so deep it didn’t feel like hers. She set the bread down, blinking. First the water, now the bread—both slipping under her guard. She needed to stay sharp.