Half a dozen cats had appeared on the lawn around me, watching me with unblinking eyes. “What?” I demanded. They didn’t reply. Taking a slow breath, I stood, catching myself against the nearest tree when the world spun around me.

I was so tired I didn’t even want to think, but that didn’t matter; Alex wouldn’t come near me again, and I was pretty sure he’d warn Terrie away from Quentin. They had to be at least that smart, and for the moment, I needed to put them aside and get back to work.

Connor and Quentin looked up when I stepped back into the cafeteria. Quentin paled while Connor bolted to his feet, crossing the floor in five huge, ground-eating steps. “Toby? What happened? You’re bleeding!”

It was too much. People were dead, Sylvester wasn’t letting me get Quentin out of harm’s way, I hadn’t slept in over a day, and we didn’t have a vehicle capable of getting us out under our own power. No matter how I looked at things, we were screwed.

I put my arms around Connor, put my head on his shoulder, and cried. He raised one hand to stroke my hair, somewhat unsteadily. I saw Quentin out of the corner of my eye, pretending not to see us. That’s another thing they teach courtiers young: discretion.

It took a few minutes for me to get control of myself. I straightened, wiping my eyes and sniffling. I’m not pretty when I cry. My nose goes red and the skin around my eyes gets puffy. Mom gave me blood magic, Dad gave me the ability to cry myself into disreputability.

“You okay?” asked Connor. “Do you need to sit down? Or put an ice pack on your lip?” He paused, expression darkening. “It was that Alex guy, wasn’t it? Did he hit you?”

The image of Connor going off to avenge my honor was just ludicrous enough to kill the urge to cry again. I giggled helplessly instead, moving to sit down in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs before my giggles turned into full-fledged laughter. Quentin and Connor watched with wide eyes and almost matching baffled expressions, which just made me laugh harder.

“Does she do this often?” asked Quentin, cautiously.

“Not often, no,” said Connor. “Toby? Does that mean I don’t need to go hit him?”

“He’s six inches taller than you,” I managed, between gales of laughter. “He’d smash you.”

“Yes, but I’d be smashed with honor,” said Connor.

That set me off again, and it was several minutes before I calmed down enough to clear my throat, wipe my eyes again, and say, “Okay, guys, serious now.”

“Serious,” said Quentin, still eyeing me with suspicion, like he expected me to burst into a new flavor of hysterics at any second.