“Family secret,” she whispered, tipping a conspiratorial wink. “I could tell you, but then strigoi would claw their way through the floor and drag you down to the nether realms.”

“Naturally.” I pursed my lips in thought, cocking my head. “So, probably better not, then.”

“I mean, it’s up to you.” She pulled a face. “But I hear this is not the time of year for excursions into hell.”

“So, does it feel like all the elders are staring at us?” I asked her as we whisked by a cluster of Thorns that included Linden’s parents, Aspen and Gabrielle. Aspen was technically the patriarch of the family, being a Thorn by blood, but Gabrielle had become its de facto head, being the stronger witch despite having come into her magic by marriage. It was one of those mysterious quirks that just happened sometimes, yet another Thistle Grove phenomenon no one had ever properly explained.

Gabrielle looked beautiful tonight, candlelight playing over her dark skin as if the years had parted around her like water streaming around a stone, without carving any lasting mark. A swarm of moths fluttered around her, alighting on her long box braids; she was the only witch I knew whose magic attracted an entourage. Her liquid dark eyes moved over me and Talia with a speculative cast, but she lifted a hand in greeting and smiled at me as warmly as when I used to spend half my life over at her orchards, getting into mischief with her daughter. As if my long absence had changed nothing between us.

A few people over, copper-haired Elena Avramov stared at us with much sharper curiosity as we whirled past, her feline eyes narrowing.

“I do believe your mother just gave me the old evil eye,” I added. “Approximately how long do I have to live?”

“Oh, I doubt it. That’s not so much her thing, these days.”

I eyed her askance. “You know, I can never tell when you’re joking about bad magic and when I should be scared.”

“Probably safest to always assume I’m serious.” Her eyes glittered with sly humor. “And of course they’re all looking at us. Gives them something to gossip about over their sherries.”

“I don’t think middle-aged people necessarily gravitate toward sherry.”

“Elena does. It’s a disgrace. These days she even skips her customary Stoli aperitif.”

“Because there was a time when your mother did slam predinner vodka shots as, like, a matter of course?”

She gave me an odd look, as if I was questioning some basic tenet of a universally accepted life philosophy.

“Right, I remember, you’re basically Russian,” I said with a crisp nod. “Speaking of parents—I haven’t gotten a chance to dive into the Gauntlet records at Tomes yet for you and Rowan. But it’s on the agenda.”

“I don’t think we’re going to need an assist for the first challenge, anyway.” Her lips tugged into that sly marauder’s grin I found so enticing. “Gareth won’t be anticipating an alliance. And knowing how spineless he is under all that bluster, I bet he’ll still be rattled by tonight.”