“Ugh! Stop!” I jump up before Spencer can say another word and shove at Lark’s shoulder until he’s forced to stand and exit the aisle. We push past the others until we reach a quiet spot under a tree. The nearest Mageguard, a short woman with dark hair and shining eyes, is about six feet behind us. She glances at me, then Lark, then goes back to her casting.

I huff, lowering my voice to Merlin levels of quiet just in case—more air than sound. “What are you doing here?”

Lark’s mouth twitches in delight. “I’m here for the service, same as you, Page Matthews.”

I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean.”

He gives me a pointed look. “As it stands now, I am to be your Kingsmage. Where else would I be?”

I gesture at the Mageguard around us, the dome above. “This has gotta be the most magically secure patch of grass in the whole damn world. Aren’t you—no offense—overkill?”

He chuckles. “No such thing when it comes to you.”

“Debatable.”

At that, Lark’s true smile breaks through. “Not debatable to the Mageguard.”

I hmph. “You sound like Selwyn.”

He hesitates at first. “Your safety should not be debatable to anyone. Especially to a Kingsmage.”

I blink at the turn in conversation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You and Kane…”

My eyes narrow. “What about us?”

He shakes his head. “Nevermind. None of my business.”

“Probably not.”

When we first arrived for the service, I searched the perimeter in hopes of seeing one Merlin in particular. I do it again now and still don’t find who I’m looking for. I just assumed we’d see each other at the service and we’d get to talk again. Smooth things over somehow.

The Bloodcraft that gives me the ability to sense when a Merlin looks my way won’t be tricked by contacts, apparently, so I feel the smattering of sparks on my cheek when Lark turns to survey me.

“What?” I snap.

“You looking for Kane?”

“I thought he’d be here.” I sigh. “These were his friends too.”

Lark tilts his head. “Kingsmages don’t tend to run late.”

I frown again at the second odd comment about Kingsmages. Does he mean Sel is here? Or that he won’t be? Or is he trying to sell himself as my Kingsmage?

“He’ll be here,” I say. Together, our eyes roam the ceremony grounds, but there’s no sign of Selwyn.

From where we stand, it’s easy to see that attendees are in four groups:

Up on the dais and behind the table of urns, the Legendborn sit in high-backed chairs, dressed in Line-colored cloaks and formal tunics. The Scions are seated in rank order: Tor as third-ranked, Felicity as fourth, Pete as seventh, and William as twelfth. Next are the Squires: Sarah and Greer.