Felicity is quick to fill me in. “The gala is a big formal event at one of the campus clubs. Dinner, dancing, champagne everywhere. Every year, Vassal families come and schmooze with Page and Legendborn families to celebrate the end of the tournament. After dinner, the Scions who need Squires announce which Page they’ve chosen. But shopping for dresses is the best part! The Order of the Rose even sends professional hair stylists…”

Felicity’s voice fades away. I can’t wrap my head around a formal dinner party. Or formal wear. Or dancing. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but suddenly all I can think of is Nick, standing in front of everyone and announcing his chosen Squire who isn’t me.

Felicity’s voice returns. “I like an updo, but I think Bree should wear her hair loose. I mean, look at these curls!”

Someone—no, two someones—tug gently at my hair.

I yank my head away. “What the hell?” Both Greer and Felicity have their hands up, surprise clear on their faces. “Don’t touch my hair.”

Greer looks chagrined. Felicity stammers, “I—I was just telling Greer about the stylist that comes to the Lodge, and your hair—”

“Is different than yours?” I snap. “Is curly? Big? Sure, but that doesn’t mean you get to touch it whenever you want. I’m not a petting zoo.”

“Sorry, Bree,” Greer says, flushing.

Felicity blinks, almost starts speaking again, then stops herself. Nods. “Sorry. I didn’t realize…”

“Yeah.” I take a deep breath, nodding. “Well, now you do.”

Back at the porch, the group has split into two. The raucous crowd at the table is working on second and third rounds. Someone ordered pitchers. From the lawn comes the irregular thunk, ga-thunk, thunk of cornhole. To any outside observer, they’re all just a table of college students out for drinks. Not descendants of ancient bloodlines, not healers, or speedsters, or strong women, or warriors. Just kids. To any outside observer, I’m one of them.

Pete is just starting a story about his father hunting a demon on the Appalachian Trail when Nick and Sel walk out onto the porch. It looks like the Kingsmage is taking his job as Nick’s personal guard more seriously after Wednesday night’s attack. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen them arrive somewhere together, or even stand next to each other without fighting. Sel’s in dour black, as always, but Nick’s in a comfortable-looking X-Men tee and a pair of old jeans. After the day I’ve had, it takes everything in me not to run into his arms, but Russ jumps up instead, clapping Nick on the back and shoving a drink into his hand.