Despite their shared coloring—though Nana’s stylishly mussed hair was even shorter than my father’s curls, her eyes darkened with an expertly applied smoky shadow I could not have replicated given a lifetime of YouTube tutorials—sometimes I wondered how my restrained father could possibly have sprung from her exuberant genetic material. She’d been exactly like this since I could remember her: unapologetically foulmouthed, joyfully extroverted, and driven entirely by the beat of her own drum.

“Any sage words of advice before I really jump in on Saturday?” I asked her. “From my Gauntlet Yoda?”

She quirked her head like some bright-eyed bird, her mouth pursed in a thoughtful moue. “Well, you already know for yourself how intense the spell can feel . . . but let me tell ya, peep, you’ve only barely scratched the surface. During the competition itself, the mantle’s influence can get . . . let’s say, a little more aggressive. It’s a tough old spell, one of the strongest we’ve got. So don’t bother trying to fight it when it gets revved up.”

Just a tad bit anxiety inducing for a control freak such as myself, but okay, I could try to roll with that.

“Go with the flow, got it,” I said, mustering a smile. “Not my natural inclination, but I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?”

“Like I said, just make sure not to overthink it. See how it goes this Saturday—and after that, you know where to find me if you need me.” She pulled me close, forehead against mine, her eyes twinkling. “And don’t forget to enjoy yourself, got it?”

“Loud and clear, Nana.”

I smiled after her as she wafted away—likely in search of a vesper martini, given that my nana was basically the low-key witch version of James Bond. Just as I considered my own empty glass, a serving tray scooted my way; damn, this ghost service was on point. This time, after I deposited my goblet on it and snatched up another drink, I did give the tray a slightly self-conscious nod of thanks.

I was lifting the wine to my lips when Gareth appeared in front of me like some unfortunate ghost of asshole heartthrobs past, ridiculous vambraces agleam.

Goddess, why me.

“Gareth,” I said, taking a giant swallow to fortify myself. “Greetings.”

“Hey, Emmy. Been a long time, huh?” Gareth rubbed the back of his neck, attempting a wan version of his low-rent Chris Pine smile. “It’s, uh, good to see you.”

“Would that I could say the same. Super cool vambraces, though! Wilt there be a joust later? Or were you planning on getting into it with some time-traveling Anglo-Saxon invaders?”

He held up an arm and fisted his hand, turning it back and forth until the slick black metal caught the light in an aggressive glint. “They’re a little cheeseball, I get it. But part of the traditional Blackmoore regalia.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded, shaking my head as if I hadn’t heard him right. “I’m sorry, what? There’s no fucking way a bespoke titanium vambrace is part of anyone’s traditional regalia.”