A curtain drew from the window upstairs, gas lights aglow in the room. If either of them happened to look up, they might notice Zech (a good foot shorter than Uriel) taking a deep breath with his eyes closed before turning.

“I will see if he is in,” the butler said with a smug sneer, stepping back and starting to close the door – but not in time to block them from seeing Zechariah scowling down at his back.

There was muffled yelling behind the door, and then shortly after it opened. This time, Zechariah stood before them. In a bathrobe (and a plainer bathrobe than the one he had lent that half-drowned and even less covered fellow), settled in for the night.

The look he cast upon the woman with Uriel was pinched. Of course she was a redhead. His gaze dropped down to her stomach, and his mouth formed a silent ‘o’. He opened the door wide and nodded toward the parlor.

“Come in,” he said, tone carefully neutral. “The butler should be by with something to eat.”

And alcohol. Mostly alcohol.