“Like superhero senses?” I made an appreciative moue, raising my eyebrows. “Sounds nifty.”

“From what she’s told me, your nana Caro certainly thought so, back when she arbitrated.” His smile faded a little, and he fixed me with a semistern look, brows beetling together. “The magic will also force you to be impartial in your verdict—not that I’d expect any less of you, even if that weren’t the case.”

The idea of being a lightning rod for a current of magic as powerful as what I’d felt touching the Grimoire—maybe even more powerful—hollowed out my stomach with both excitement and a chilly curl of trepidation.

“So, okay, I play master of ceremonies,” I said, striving for composure. “And then what happens?”

“The Avramovs will host the opening gala right afterward, as is traditional. After that, Lady’s Lake will . . .”

My father’s words receded into a background murmur as I wondered dreamily how Talia Avramov might dress for a gala hosted at her imposing family manse. Something formfitting but dramatically dark, I’d expect, against all that creamy skin. Maybe she’d wear her hair up for it, all the better to showcase the Avramov garnet against that absurdly long and slender neck. Maybe—

“Scoot?” I emerged from my reverie to find my father watching me with a touch of censure, one expectant eyebrow raised. “Have I lost you already?”

“No, no, sorry,” I said, chastened. “Lady’s Lake, you were saying?”

“Yes, next Saturday, in lieu of a Sabbat,” he said, a touch impatiently. The families held witches’ Sabbats every Saturday in October, I remembered, though it’d been a long time since I’d last been at one. “The lake is always the site of the opening challenge, whichever one falls first. Remember, it’s the Grimoire that chooses the order in which combatants are tested for strength, speed, and wit. They won’t know which it is until you tell them.”

“And they’re always different, the challenges?” I asked, taking care to keep only innocent curiosity on my face—though I was wondering how Talia and Rowan could practice for something completely unexpected, and how I could possibly be of any help without compromising the Arbiter’s integrity. “Or does the Grimoire ever recycle them?”

My father’s brow furrowed into a pensive frown. “They’re new each time, as far as I know. But you could take a look at the records, if you’re interested. You’ll be adding to them yourself later on; part of the Arbiter’s job is to document the challenges for posterity, once the Gauntlet is done.”

“The Harlows always get stuck with the damn paperwork,” I muttered, and my dad chuckled in response, shrugging a shoulder.

“There are much worse things than documenting this town’s history, scoot. Being its voice, its quiet champion.”

I gave him a flat agree to disagree look. He stifled a sigh, but let it go.

“Where were we . . . ah, the second challenge. That one will take place at the Thorn orchards, a week after the first,” he went on. “And the final challenge is always held on Blackmoore grounds a week later—followed by the closing ball on Samhain Eve, also hosted by the Blackmoores at Tintagel, when the Victor is formally crowned.”