Finally settling in a far corner of the kitchen with a couple of people from her course—Reggie with the cool T-shirts and Nikki, whose Boudicca costume had started an excellent conversation about the Celts, druids, and ritual sacrifice—Daisy felt as if she’d finally blossomed. Her jokes were funnier, her conversation wittier, and even though she had long since lost sight of Susan, she felt that maybe she wasn’t just Halloween party material on the outside but on the inside, too.

Out in the relative safety of the stairwell, Susan could see through to the front room, where Esther was tossing her hair at a group of generic boys, and out to the kitchen, where Daisy was perched on the counter with a couple of people who’d come out for her birthday the other week. She’d shoved a set of fangs under her top lip to do impressions of someone, and the three of them were in hysterics.

Her two charges making their merry way in the world, forging new friendships all on their own.

Leaning back against the wall, Susan lifted her freshly cracked can of dark ale to her lips. A taste of home, memories of sitting in the pub after a shift.

It didn’t taste great.

Yet again, her attention wandered back to Daisy, to Esther.

So much for a J-block night out.

Before Susan could take another sip of tepid misery, someone crashed into her from the side, sending the can flying. Whipping around, ready to unleash her ever-present anger, Susan came face-to-face with the sexy sentient tree, whose branch had thwapped her in the back. For several seconds, there was a standoff, and then . . .

“Oh, my god, I’m so sorry—”

“No, totally not your fault. Your branch—”

“Here, look, have my rum and Coke.”

“No, no, that’s fine . . .”

“I insist!” Then came the comment, “I’m so sorry about this stupid outfit. I mean, who the hell thinks trees are sexy?”

Susan’s pupils turned into little hearts. “I KNOW!”

Eventually, Daisy had to make a break for the loo. Small talk seemed to require a lot of sipping of one’s drink, and Daisy had drained four cups of lemonade already. Following the makeshift sign that said BOGS THIS WAY, Daisy slipped out through the back of the kitchen, past a washing machine, and ducked down under the fake cobwebs someone had strewn across the light fixtures to a door marked THE BOGS, whose handle didn’t turn when she tried.

Dancing a little dance of desperation, Daisy counted to fifty before reaching out to knock.

“Um . . . hi, sorry, I just want to check if you’re going to be long? Which would be fine! But I’ll go and find—”

The lock clicked, and the door opened.