Susan followed her finger and tried to focus on the person at whom the Hobbit was pointing. Big workmanlike boots. Pale blue jeans, scuffed, and a fitted checked shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose a pair of strong forearms. A woolen hat, the rim turned up.

It was the beard. That’s what tricked Susan into what she said next.

“Yup. That’s a sexy lumberjack, all right.”

And then, with the kind of horror that washes in a second after one has done something unimaginably regrettable, Susan realized who it was.

On any other night, Esther could have asked a group of students if they’d seen someone who looked like a fairy in mourning, and they’d have known exactly who she meant.

Tonight, however, that description was getting her exactly nowhere.

Esther stopped by the drinks table just as “Like a Prayer” came on, and a murmur of nuns got overexcited, forming a circle around someone who’d come dressed as Madonna. There was no way of crossing the dance floor now—she’d just have to wait.

“Lads, lads, lads!” A giant in a rugby shirt and token devil horns standing next to Esther slapped a nearby boy on the back with a hand the size of a Frisbee. “I know who she is!”

Esther wasn’t sure how he knew whom she was looking for, given that she’d not actually asked him . . . until she realized he wasn’t talking about Goth Girl. He was pointing a giant sausage finger right at Esther.

“It’s you! Off that website! Shaggable number 3—quick!” He reached into the crowd of dancing nuns and pulled out a set of rosaries, beads bouncing across the floor from where the string had snapped. “I’ve got a crucifix—let’s tame the beast . . .”

He lunged forward, aiming the cross at Esther’s left breast as if to brand her.

But weeks of an afternoon Boxercise class hadn’t left her defenseless. A step to the side, and he missed, the momentum sending him crashing face-first into the drinks table. Cries of outrage and groans of disappointment erupted from the dancing nuns and nearby drinkers.

“I’m so sorry about him,” the barista said.

“Keeps his brain cells in his bollocks, that one,” the groom added.

“What, all two of them?” Esther said, turning her back on where their friend was floundering in a puddle of punch.

The boys turned with her, arms crossed, heads shaking, identical frowns of disapproval.

“Sexist brute.”

“Toxic masculinity.”

“Product of an institutionally sexist society.”

“Dismantle the patriarchy.”

“Down with men.”

“Oh, I don’t know . . .” Esther fanned her face with one hand, flustered by all the feminism and appraising her companions. Uninspired outfits, tidy haircuts. Exactly to her taste. “Some men are all right.”

“We’re all dogs, love.” The barista reached out to rest a hand on her shoulder, stopping an inch short. “Sorry, is it OK if I touch your shoulder?”