There was a lot of talk about finding one’s center in yoga. Daisy imagined that hers was made of caramel. Golden and lazy, as if her whole body was melting from the inside out, as if she were a chocolate left too long in the sun. During Zoise yoga, that was certainly how she felt—meditating turned her warm and oozy. She was the human embodiment of not wanting to get out of bed on a cold morning. That was the name of one of the moves, actually, now that she came to think of it, where you were supposed to curl up underneath one of the blankets. A lot of the moves had oddly mundane names. There were no trees or mountains or warriors here; it was all much more relaxed than that. There was Pretending It’s Nighttime, when you lay on your back and folded your arms over your eyes, and Feigning Interest, where you sat cross-legged, resting an elbow on one leg and propping your chin in your hand.

Daisy’s favorite was Staring at Dreams, where she lay on her back with her eyes closed.

It was the easiest position in which to transcend meditative planes, and it just so happened to be the position from which someone was trying to rouse her.

“Daisy . . .” Someone was patting her cheek gently. “You need to wake up.”

I’m meditating, Daisy corrected the usurper. Only it didn’t work, because she wasn’t awake enough to form words.

“Seriously. How many of those cookies have you had?”

Before she could answer, freezing spray hit her skin, and Daisy’s mind was yanked back into her body. A sharp tang of chemicals wafted up her nose, and her eyes snapped open, but what she saw must have been a meditative vision. There, looming over her, like two warring airships, were Susan and Esther. Which made no sense whatsoever. Esther despised yoga almost as much as Susan despised exercise.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Daisy willed herself to consciousness, but when she opened them, her friends remained.

“Hello,” Esther said, rustling an open bag of crisps. “We’ve come to rescue you.”

“From what?”

“The Brethren.” Susan frowned. “And also yourself. You know everyone here’s on drugs—including you, right?”

“What?” This was too much. “But it’s just a yoga social . . .”

Susan snapped her fingers in front of Daisy’s slightly wobbly vision. “Get with it, Wooton. Look: weird robes, passed-out students—all of whom are first-years. That’s not even a little bit suspicious?”

Carefully, as if helping a foal stand for the first time, Esther pulled Daisy to her feet, muttering to Susan, “We need to open those doors, get some fresh air in here.”