“You can ask him yourself,” I said, pointing up ahead to the turquoise awnings and bright yellow door of All Hours. Reg and Poe had just spilled out the front door, with Dexter following behind them.

No, wait. He was stepping between them, his arms stretched to keep them apart.

We dumped the rest of our flyers into a bag looped over Sydney’s shoulder and raced up to the boys.

“Guys, chill!” Dexter said.

Poe tried to sidestep Dexter but was easily blocked by his tall friend, so he settled for craning his neck around Dexter’s frame to point at Reg. “You’re overreacting.”

“I don’t see why you are trying to keep me from rehearsal.” Reg argued. “The understudy needs to know the part as well as the primary player.”

His arms were gesturing in a wild way that was so not my brother. Human emotions were clearly more than he could handle, and our return to immortality could not come soon enough.

“Reg—” I started, but Poe drowned me out.

“I’m doing no such thing!” He held out his cell phone, screen aimed at Reg, like a weapon. “They specifically said they didn’t need understudies for the pickup rehearsal.”

Reg refused to look at the phone. “Just admit you are threatened by me.”

Poe looked like he’d been slapped. “Threatened by you? Is that a joke?”

“No, you’re the joke—”

“Hey!” the twins said at once, both moving to stand behind Poe.

I hesitated, then took a few halting steps to hover near my brother. Reg was being an ass, but only I understood what it was like to suddenly feel things—really feel them—after a century of barely feeling anything but thirst. I would tell him he was a jerk later. For now, I had his back.

Poe shook his head at Reg, tears in his eyes . . . and a little bit of pity too. “Jealousy does not become you.”

I winced. That was not going to go over well.

“What did you just say to me?” Reg asked in a low hiss. If it weren’t for the wall of Dexter, he looked like he might take a swing at Poe.

Poe swiped at one eye, then pulled himself up straight. “I said you’re jealous. And unreasonable. It’s not my fault the director only wants his primary Puck.”

Reg’s fists balled, his face reddened, and when he spoke, spit flew from his mouth.

“PUCK YOU!”

Then he stormed away, yanking his arm out of my grasp when I tried to stop him.

“Reg!” I ran to catch up. “Stop!”

His strides were longer, but I was faster, and I finally jumped in front of him and pressed a hand to his chest.

“You are so lucky I am wearing tennis shoes today,” I said, huffing. “If you’d made me ruin my heels . . .”

“I could always outrun you when we were immortal,” Reg grumbled.