Having secured an empty table with nothing more than a mug of fruit tea, a book, and her phone for company, Daisy had presented too vulnerable a target amid the post-lecture frenzy of the coffee shop. Her spare chair and 80 percent of the table surface had been annexed by a group of History students, one of whom kept turning to glare at the side of Daisy’s face as if she were the interloper.

Daisy looked wistfully at the message on her phone from Susan asking for the address of the yoga place and saying she’d meet Daisy there. If Susan were sitting here, those History students would have yielded the table for six and offered to buy them fresh drinks in reparations.

As it was, Daisy was faced with the dilemma of eking out the last cold mouthfuls of her tea or risk losing her seat if she stood to order another.

She’d have to find a way. Esther wasn’t due out of her Creative Writing seminar for fifteen minutes. If Daisy needed to defend this table for longer, she could do it. For Esther.

“Excuse me?” Daisy used her quietest and most polite voice. “Could you save my seat for me while I get another drink?”

The History student she asked nodded, and Daisy wondered whether she hadn’t been unkind in her judgment. But when she came back to her table, all her things—the book she’d been reading, her hat and gloves—had been heaped on her chair, and the table had been shuffled across the aisle and assimilated into the History students’ territory.

“Saved your seat!” the student she’d spoken to said with a smirk.

So that would be a 100 percent fail rate at Creative Writing. Esther pushed out of the door, wanting to get away from the humiliation, but it followed her down the stairs.

“How did you even get in?” Vectra laughed as she fell into step with Esther. “Everyone knows Frankenstein’s the name of the doctor, not the monster.”

“Aw, that’s not true. I didn’t until I read it.” Thesaurus Boy was jostling along next to them, beaming at the side of Esther’s face so that she couldn’t tell whether or not he was being sarcastic.

“Good point.” Vectra nodded, giving Esther a sly look. “Most of us have read our favorite books. And those of us who consider ourselves sisters of the night would know our gothic literature.”

Esther hesitated. Did that mean Vectra knew who she was? Or was she just referring to herself?

“I, er, we didn’t really meet properly back there—” Esther began.

“I’m Otto!” Thesaurus Boy said brightly, waving.

“Hi, Otto. I’m Esther.”

“Yeah, we know. You said.” Vectra could walk fast for someone with such short legs. “You’re the Gothic Pixie Dream Girl all the boys have been wetting themselves over.”

“Gothic Pixie Dream Girl” didn’t sound like a compliment.