Patricia sets her own sandwich aside. “Bree, several things became clear to me during our walk yesterday. The first is that you yourself have a branch of root, one that gives you the ability to see root in its raw form. The second is what you revealed to me in Louisa’s memory—that you are acquainted with the Order of the Round Table. If that’s true, then it follows that the only reason you’re sitting here right now is because the Order is not aware of what you can do. Am I correct?”

I fidget under her gaze, but nod.

“I’m relieved,” Patricia says with a sigh. “Our people have learned the hard way to hide our abilities from them, even when we were working in their homes and caring for their babies.”

I hadn’t considered this and feel foolish for not asking about it earlier. How did the Rootcrafters hide all they could do, all the time, from the Scions, Squires, Pages… or anyone who took the First Oath and was granted Sight? Patricia reads my expression.

“We can be plenty invisible when they want us to be,” she says dryly. “Rootcraft knows of their origins, their mission, and how they use their ‘aether’ to fight the crossroads creatures. We also know from experience what they do to outsiders who use power. How they take them away, lock them up, or worse.”

“I didn’t tell anyone in the Order about you,” I say quickly, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

She places a hand over mine. “I didn’t think you would. But you’re still in danger every time you go near them.”

“I know,” I murmur.

“Then why do it?” Mariah asks, confusion written on her face. “Hiding what you are on top of hanging out with the good ole boys club? Twisting yourself all up into a shape that’s convenient for them?” She wrinkles her nose. “Sounds exhausting.”

I swallow around an unexpected lump, because she’s right. The looks Vaughn still gives me. Tor’s words the night of my Oath. The look I get from a few of the eliminated Pages that hang around the Lodge. How much energy I spend wondering if they’re thinking the same thing Vaughn is about why I’m Nick’s Page—that it’s sex, or race, or both. Between Nick’s rules and the ones I already carry around with me every day, it is exhausting. I could argue that the Order’s not all white, that Sarah’s there, but then I remember what she said about her dad and the dinner parties and get tired all over again. They’re both doing a version of the same contortionist act that I’m doing: figuring out how to survive in water that you know has sharks, because you have to.