“Now that we’re best friends again, you wanna get dinner together? A girl from my Classics class wants to meet up.” Alice wrinkles her nose. “It’s ‘Italian Night’ at Lenoir, whatever that means.”

After finishing classes for the day, we’ve been lounging on our respective beds, phones in hand. I’m not sure what Alice has been doing, but I’ve been opening my messaging app compulsively, as if Nick has texted me and the app is simply refusing to reveal it. Maybe this time. Maybe this time. Maybe now?

It’s not embarrassing if no one sees me doing it, right?

I start no fewer than seven different texts but erase each one before sending, because what if I do text him and he doesn’t text back?

More importantly, what would I say?

I decide not to mention my meeting with Patricia to Nick. Not until I know more. And even then, I’m not sure what I should share with him, or anyone.

If my mother knew about the Order, its claim on magic, and its tendency to put magic users on trial (or worse), it only makes sense that she’d have hid her abilities on campus, just as I’m doing now. If what Patricia said is true, then calling my father won’t be of any use, because my mother kept this part of her life from him. So far, only Nick knows about me and what I can do, not counting the red flames. Maybe I should keep it that way?

Utterly confused, I toss my phone out of reach and flop back against my pillows to stare at the ceiling with a frustrated sigh.

Knowing that my mother was on Carolina’s campus twenty-five years ago doing exactly what I’m doing now—keeping things secret, hiding parts of herself from other people—makes me feel closer to her and, simultaneously, like I never knew her at all.

Who was she, really?

“Bree?” Alice asks, pulling me away from my thoughts. “Italian Night?”

“You know what Italian Night means,” I say, and sit up, snatching my phone again, because apparently I’m committed to being ridiculous. “Soggy, overcooked cafeteria spaghetti and runny sauce. Sad lasagna that’s been sitting under a warmer for two hours.”

“It’s either sad pasta or the food court. Which do you want?”

The dormer window of our top-floor room is cracked open. The whoops and cheers of the Wednesday night party crowd reach us from the sidewalk below. According to Charlotte, who’d stopped by our room on her way out, “Wednesday night is the new Thursday night and, by the way, nobody goes out on Fridays.”

“I can’t go anyways,” I mutter, and my stomach twists on yet another lie. “That student group I mentioned? They’re hosting dinner tonight at their house.”

Across the room, Alice sits up. “What’s this group called again?”