Arik went still.
"The good cognac," Arik repeated.
"Yes."
Edward, after years of loyal service, administrative miracles, stress-induced near-death, and surviving Damian in his less civilized decades, had apparently concluded that the only defensible form of self-preservation left to him was strategic concealment of premium alcohol in places members of the imperial family were unlikely to inspect unless actively hunting.
Unfortunately for Edward, he served a household raised by Gabriel.
Which meant pattern recognition was hereditary and, mercy, unreliable.
Arik's gold eyes narrowed slightly. "You know where it is."
Cecil crossed his arms, immediately smug. "I know where one of them is."
"One of them."
"Yes."
Arik stared at him for a beat, then another. "How many caches has he made?"
"I don't know. At least three, maybe four. Edward stopped underestimating this family years ago."
"That was wise of him."
"That was necessary of him."
