I don’t know what I expected, but that isn’t it. The room is as fashionable as the rest of the house, and in its center, around one of those tree trunk tables, are a dozen students, anywhere from my age to Keller’s. A pretty blonde in clothes almost as formal as mine, a dark-haired guy in glasses, a bulky blond who reminds me of a younger, beardless Thor. I recognize Keller’s cousin, Sebastian, as we were briefly introduced on Saturday. The buxom girl with baby-blue hair who had been on his lap sits next to him, Keller at her right. There’s an empty seat next to him.

Everyone’s chatting, laughing, barely paying attention to my entrance.

I wave skittishly.

The blonde is the first to greet me. “You must be Claire. It’s nice to have another girl in the tower.” She grins at the blue-haired girl across the table. “I mean, officially. You don’t count, Tia.”

She stands and offers me a hand. “I’m Calla Beaufort.”

“Oh. Claire. You already knew that.” Rather than embarrass myself further, I shake her hand.

She’s being nice to me.

I guess I thought people would be giving me the cold shoulder, calling me a snitch, or even a whore. What did Keller tell them about me?

As I pass them to get to my seat, the rest of the table introduces themselves one by one, remaining in their seats. I shake hands and repeat my name dumbly.

When I’m next to Keller, he stands to hold my seat. “The cook will always prepare enough food for twelve,” he says. “That’s the seven official members of the tower, these two”—he waves towards his cousin—“and a few guests. He needs notice if there are more people—around four hours, ideally. Dinner’s usually served at seven thirty. You can request it in your room, or anywhere else in the house if you’re not feeling social. If you miss it, leftovers are in the fridge. They do disappear the next day at twelve. It goes to the cafeteria; we wouldn’t want waste.”

I nod, assimilating exactly none of the information.

The doors open again, before a man rolling in a large serving cart.

“Where is she? Where is the meat girl?”

Everyone chuckles. The meat girl being me, Keller tilts his head my way. “Right here, Claudio.”

A man in a sharp white apron without a speck of dust, let alone a stain, rushes towards me, practically skipping. “Che bellezza. I knew you would be beautiful.” He takes both of my hands. “Yes. Do you like pasta?”

I feel like my life depends on the answer. Luckily, I don’t have to lie. “Yes, I love pasta.”