When Lark dropped me off an hour ago, he’d been wearing what seemed to be the daytime version of the Mageguard uniform: dark grays instead of blacks, loose slacks, and a charcoal corded sweater, no tunic or cowl. Now he’s wearing a black suit that looks like it’s worth more than my entire wardrobe. His hair has been combed down to cover most of the shaved undercut. And the tattoos I’d seen last night are covered by a crisp white high-necked collar and long black suit sleeves. His amber eyes haven’t lost their sparkle, even hidden behind a pair of high-end, near-perfect brown contacts that, I assume, are custom designed to hide his cambion heritage. Despite the designer suit, he looks like an extremely average college student. Nearly forgettable. Even his smile is set tight enough that his lips hide his Merlin canines.

“A three-thousand-dollar Armani suit.” Lark tugs at the collar with a grimace. “Not what I’m used to, honestly, but it’s what Theresa sent to my room here at the compound.”

“Emissary Theresa sent you a suit?” Spencer twists in his seat, obviously eavesdropping. “Which chapter are you from?”

Lark has a lie at the ready. “I’m here to represent the Northern Chapter’s current membership and to offer condolences on behalf of our Scions and Squires.” Even his accent is less pronounced here. Another part of the disguise.

The university chapters of the Legendborn don’t mingle much, not even for funerals. The Legendborn cycle means that when a Scion dies, there is always a family member trained and ready to take their place. If a Squire falls, there’s another Page ready to be selected and Oathed. The only reason today’s service was expected to be well-attended is because four Legendborn died at once.

Spencer sneers. “Are Armani suits typical gifts up at Northern? When it’s not even your chapter members that died?”

And there seems to be a healthy amount of competition, even though we’re all supposed to be on the same side.

Lark is scanning the crowd. In response to Spencer’s question, he lifts a noncommittal shoulder that can be read as a “yes” or an “I don’t know” or nothing at all. Lark clearly couldn’t care less about the treatment that other chapters’ Pages get, but Spencer takes his silence for insult. He scowls. “You Northern kids. Spoiled, just like everyone says.”

Without sparing Spencer a glance, Lark flashes a grin. “Southern Chapter hospitality at its finest, I see.”

“Say that again…,” Spencer growls, moving to stand.