“Is that—?”

“Nick Davis.” The tallest woman, a brunette, speaks with a low rasp. The first woman elbows her, and she corrects herself. “Excuse me. Scion Davis.”

Nick inclines his head, addressing them all in turn. “Rose members Hood, Edwards, and Schaefer. What brings you to the Lodge tonight?” He steps back to let them in. “The tournament trials are closed, as you know…”

It takes a second, but I recognize their last names and facial features. These three are mothers of chapter members: Pete Hood, Scion of Owain; Ainsley Edwards, a second-year Page; and Vaughn Schaefer, from my Page class.

Rose member Schaefer’s eyes twinkle as she enters. She acknowledges me with a polite smile and a wave, then offers a sly glance to Nick. “We heard a rumor you returned.”

“Elena, please.” The Edwards woman waves a manicured hand adorned with nails the dark orange of Bors. “The Order of the Rose always supervises catering during the Trials.” Still addressing Nick, she extends her umbrella toward me, handle first. “Take this and dry it? Now, tonight’s meal—”

She stops speaking when I don’t follow her instructions, and turns, fully looking at me for the first time.

“Did you not hear me?”

Indignation and rage burn through me like a furnace. “I heard you just fine,” I mutter through clenched teeth.

She inhales sharply. “Where is your supervisor?”

“This is Briana Matthews, my Page.” Nick takes the umbrella himself, hard steel under his placid tone. “She is not a servant, Virginia, nor will you treat her as such. Not in my presence or otherwise.”

The other women detect Nick’s quiet anger and say nothing.

But Virginia Edwards is not done. Her nostrils flare at Nick’s admonishment. At a teenage boy’s use of her given name, and the reminder of his authority. “Your… Page?” Her gaze darts from point to point as she processes this information: my face, hair, T-shirt, and jeans. How close I’m standing to Nick. “Scion Davis, I would expect you to select a Page from the Vassals to your Line, as is tradition.”

“I value Page Matthews’s abilities,” Nick says, his face impassive, “and your expectations belong to you.”

She stiffens. “What does your father think of this? Surely he must—”

“His father is thankful that he has returned.” We turn to see Lord Davis entering the room using a wheelchair. Nick makes as if to assist him, but Davis waves him away. “And pleased that the Order of the Rose is here once again to support this year’s tournament.”

“Lord Davis.” Vaughn’s mother dips her head, as do the others. “My son shared that you’d been injured in battle.”