I might not really be an interloper here, but after so many years away from Thistle Grove, maybe some of them felt that I no longer belonged. And maybe they were right—wasn’t that what I’d intended, after all, by leaving without looking back?

When one of the tarnished silver trays bobbing through the air hovered to a stop in front of me, I gratefully snagged a goblet of red wine, a little unsettled by the magical aerodynamics of the thing. The tray seemed less enchanted, and more like some invisible server must be carrying it. It left me wondering whether I should say thank you just to be safe; maybe conjuring an entourage of spectral waiters was part of the Avramovs’ uncanny repertoire. I made a mental note to ask Talia about it when I found her, a giddy thrill whorling around my stomach at the idea of seeing her again in that clinging dress, her hair up just like I’d hoped . . .

“Emmeline,” a thin, familiar voice said behind me, banishing any further pleasant thoughts.

“Delilah,” I said flatly, tossing back the remainder of my drink as I turned around to meet my cousin’s prissy face.

True to form, Delilah wore our traditional dove gray and white family robes, the hems embellished with some subtle arcane embroidery that she’d probably added herself. Delilah had always gone hard on the “craft” in “witchcraft,” mostly as an excuse to crochet or needlepoint to her introverted little heart’s content. And because she was so very deeply extra about all that came with being a Harlow witch, speckled feathers—the tawny owl being part of our family crest—were woven into her hair, which was nut brown and curly and even longer than mine had been back in my Thistle Grove days.

“So, you’re really back,” she said, casting a disdainful eye over my own outfit; my precipitous heels, and a black lacework and chiffon Reiss dress that just skimmed my thighs. Given my witchy abdication, I couldn’t quite bring myself to wear the family robes, which, in timeless Harlow tradition, were also criminally lacking in any sort of panache or style.

“Sure am,” I said, in the same aggressively bland tones. “Gosh, nothing gets by you, Lilah. Although to be fair, I was just ten times my usual size, so, you know. Kind of hard to miss.”

She licked her lips, flicking her big brown eyes to the side in just-barely-not-an-eye-roll. “And you’re still planning on going through with it?” she asked, not quite managing to suppress the hope that flashed across her face. It was so painfully earnest that for a moment I felt a stab of guilt for what my being here took away from her. “Actually arbitrating the Gauntlet on Saturday?”

“Certainly seems that way.”

“But why?” she demanded, and this time her frustration boiled over. “Why did you even bother to come at all, Emmy? You think our family’s a joke, and everybody knows it. Why not leave it to someone who, I don’t know, genuinely cares about our legacy? About our traditions?”