The girl behind him sighs dramatically. “You’d think you’d be better at this.” She turns to me. “He’s only looking out for you.”

“Are you one of the other troupes?”

The boy sighs. “You know, then. They got you. Did you already agree to be their apprentice?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“It’s dangerous.” His face is tight and cold, like a vault of secrets I’ll never open.

The girl claps her hands. “I’m an apprentice too.”

I look between them. “If it’s so dangerous, why do you have one?”

Something dark flickers across the boy’s face.

The girl’s face falls a tiny bit, like she really hadn’t considered it. “Maybe we could talk over ice cream?”

“I don’t—”

She grabs my arm and starts pulling me back onto the street before I can even protest. “It couldn’t hurt to have a friend, right? If we’re going to be in the same competition?”

“Willow,” the boy growls.

“Ignore Roman,” Willow says. “He doesn’t do friends.” She lowers her voice like she’s sharing a secret. “I’m pretty sure even I’m not his friend.” There’s sarcasm in her voice, but also a little bit of hurt. I relax into her grip on my arm. I don’t trust people who are too bright and too happy, but there’s something underneath her that feels more truthful.

And while I’m not really looking for a friend, I am always open to more information. I can go along with this.

“I’m Ava,” I tell her, surprised that I give her my name without even being asked, but I like the way she’s just talking to me like she doesn’t even need it.

The walk to the ice cream parlor takes an eternity, but maybe it’s because Roman trails behind me, and I can’t help feeling his stare on my back.

I have to fight the urge to glance over my shoulder at him.

We come to a halt outside a busy ice cream parlor with a chalkboard full of bizarre flavors like lavender and green tea. I’ve passed this place multiple times, but I’ve never been. Parker and Jacob always want Blizzards at Dairy Queen.

Willow puts herself in line behind a pair of young men, who gawk at her before coming to their senses and turning back to the counter. They don’t glance at me. I can hardly blame them. Willow’s long blond hair swings almost to her waist and is tangled in a way that makes you imagine her running through the forest in her bare feet while branches snag her hair. She turns bark-colored eyes toward me.

“Do you have a favorite flavor?”

“Vanilla, I guess.” Based on the sign I saw outside, vanilla is off the table.