“Or just desperate to have a friend, since she can’t seem to make any that matter,” Brendan chimes in, and I see a flash of anger in Layla’s eyes. Aarya’s eyes, however, are brightened by this whole exchange. And I have to wonder what he means by matter. All I can think is that it has something to do with the Family alliances Ash was talking about, but I’m not sure.

“Layla’s laughing because you’re ridiculous, Aarya,” I say to her, and then turn to Brendan. “And whoa there, Brendan. Let’s not talk about desperate unless we also talk about your embarrassing knife skills. Or did you just get into this school because you’re the firstborn of a leading family?” I’m taking a shot in the dark here, but how dare he come at Layla like that?

By the way his eyes narrow, I know I’ve struck a nerve. But the surprised and tense glances from some of the other Strategia make me think I may have gone too far.

Aarya claps and hoots. “This is the best time I’ve had in months. Look at Brendan’s face.” She laughs. “Look at Layla’s.”

Layla stands up like she’s had enough of this whole night, and I get up with her. Whispers vibrate through the room like a swarm of locusts, though I notice Ines drawing uninterrupted in her sketchpad, like nothing at all is happening.

“But my real question is”—Aarya pauses to bite her lip and raise her eyebrows—“who were you meeting? You must have been meeting someone, right? You just got here and haven’t had time to learn the guards’ schedules.”

“Ah, that’s a good point, Aarya,” Charles says, and he puts his cards down, eager to jump in. “Why don’t you enlighten us, November?” He steals a glance at Brendan.

I shake my head and smile, like their assumption couldn’t be more absurd. I only hope a roomful of deception experts can’t tell that my actual thoughts are anxiously racing. Even I know that denying something outright makes you look guilty.

“It just strikes me as odd that on the same night Stefano was killed you were out of your room. Details. Details,” Aarya says, and sighs.

The room gets noticeably quiet at the mention of Stefano’s name, and even Ines looks up from her sketchpad.

“So many details,” I say. “Why, just a few days ago at lunch someone mentioned that you had lost your knife. Do we know yet how Stefano died?” I keep my tone casual.

Layla shoots me a look that is somewhere between admiration and horror.

“Touchée, mon amie. Now you’re in the arena,” Aarya says, switching to a perfect French accent. Then she growls and slashes her fingers at me like she’s a big cat.