Talia and I smiled at each other over their bickering. She reached under the bar to thread her fingers lightly through mine, my skin sparking to life at her touch like tinder. Apparently my abrupt-onset depression wasn’t so complete that it could muffle even this, the fire that flared between us so reliably.

“How stoked are you to be an only child right now?” she asked, a corner of her mouth tugging up. “I can’t imagine growing up all soft like that. Never even having to compete for resources.”

“To be fair, being an only child isn’t going to help me this time,” I said, trying to focus on her instead of the soft way her thumb was grazing the inside of my wrist. “I won’t be talking to my parents. My dad’s too honor forward to participate in something like this, even if it isn’t technically against the rules. And the two of them always close ranks, so trying my mom won’t be any use.”

“So who will you be talking to, then?”

“My nana Caro,” I said, giving her hand a little squeeze. “My favorite grandparent. And the one who was Arbiter before me.”

Nana Caro had the demanding social calendar of a Bridgerton debutante, which meant I hadn’t seen her for so much as a brunch since the gala at The Bitters. I didn’t take it personally; my grandmother had always been that way. Exuberantly loving with her grandchildren—a consummate confidante, and reliable smuggler of snack contraband—but also protective of the space she’d carved out for herself. It was her way, I guessed, of keeping her life hers, and I’d always respected her for marking out those boundaries.

But when I’d called to ask for her help, there must have been something extra in my voice, some granddaughter equivalent of a bat signal. She’d invited me for tea and sympathy the very same day.

“How are you bearing up, peep?” she asked, surveying me closely as I sipped a blistering cup of Mexican hot chocolate, which I should have known better than to accept. Despite the silly Harlow affinity for drinks at perfect temperatures, anything warm Nana served stayed dragon-breath scalding until it was gone—presumably because that was just the way she liked it.

“You’re looking a little peaky,” she added, flashing a quick smile to soften any sting. “The mantle doesn’t take it easy on anyone, but from where I’m sitting, you’ve had an even more exciting go of it than usual.”

“I think it is starting to wear on me,” I admitted. “I’m getting a little frayed around the edges, if that makes sense. More sensitive than I usually am, verging on morose? Very weird, not like me at all.”

“I know just what you mean,” she said, leaning across the coffee table to pat my knee. “Even for an adrenaline junkie like me, it got a bit much as it wore on. And I had your gramps to see me through the rougher patches. Steady as stone, that man was. Could weather just about anything.”