“Fair point. Damn, it smells amazing in here,” I half moaned, sagging against the crackling vinyl as I drew a deep breath. “Did it always smell this amazing?”

“The Harlow stomach still in full effect, I see,” Lin said, amused by my rapture. That I could eat her under the table, despite her being the enviably taller and curvier of the two of us, was one of our longest-running jokes. “Fried cake for brunch was a good call. Though now I’m thinking maybe it also qualifies as first aid. Tore it up a little your first night back, I take it?”

“More or less,” I admitted. “I stopped by the Cauldron and accidentally had a little too much fun. As one does. And here I thought the shower at least masked my transformation into hungover hag from beyond the grave.”

She tilted her head solemnly from side to side, considering. “I mean, we’re not talking Samara from The Ring or anything. But a touch deathly, yeah.”

Lin, on the other hand, looked lovely. Though she wore her hair natural now, in a twist-out that just barely brushed her shoulders, her deep brown skin and huge doe eyes were exactly the same. She wore yards of ivy-patterned teal scarf over a slouchy eggshell sweaterdress, along with impossibly dainty, feather-shaped silver earrings; courtesy of her little sister, no doubt. Lark Thorn had been into designing jewelry even before I left.

“Might I offer my services?” she asked, holding up her hands and waggling her fingers playfully. Though all the families technically had access to the same healing spells in the Grimoire, the Thorns were the most skilled healers of the bunch, by far. The talent tied in somehow with their affinity for nature-based green magic, a lineage they could trace back to druids in Ireland.

“By all means, do give me the hands,” I replied, leaning across the table toward her. “As much as I’d like to pretend I’m still the gritty party animal you remember from high school, my situation’s actually pretty dire.”

“Oh, yeah, the party animal who used to set her own Saturday night curfew so as to not ‘waste’ too much of her Sundays being hungover,” she teased, pressing her fingertips to my temples.

“Establishing a sustainable work ethic is important, Linden.”

Scoffing fondly, she closed her eyes and murmured a low incantation. A honeyed swirl of warmth spiraled through my head, vivid scrolls of amethyst and emerald green unspooling in the darkness behind my eyelids. Healing magic felt wonderful; comforting and somehow ineffably luxurious, like an aromatherapy massage complete with one of those gingerbread-scented pillows warm under your neck.

“Ugh, I can’t quite get it all, sorry,” she said when she drew back, grimacing and shaking out her hands, as if some of my hangover ick was physically adhering to her skin. Maybe it was; having never been strong enough to pull one off, I had no idea how healing spells worked in practice. “Unfortunately for you,” she added, “Rowan’s still better at this than I am.”