“I think about what Hawkes said those few months ago. Alchemy.” I motioned at the four of us. “It stands to reason it won’t last forever, but for now it feels like a season set apart, a foreordained— Oh, I don’t know.” Islington, relaxing into the back of the sofa, found the right phrase. “A golden age.” Now I did smile. “I’ll toast to that.” Islington reached forward for our abandoned teacups, handed me mine, then lifted his own. “To the golden age.” My cup rang against his.
