Saylor didn’t move, but her eyes flicked to my hand. We’d stopped on our way back into town to get bandages and antibiotic cream for my cut, and the majority of my palm was swathed in gauze. “I can see that.”

As quietly and quickly as he could, David told Saylor about Blythe, pausing only when Miss Annemarie tottered over to take our orders. When he was done, Saylor sat very still, her face totally blank. But her hand was clutching her fork so hard, I was afraid she might actually bend the metal. “And the two of you decided to tackle this by yourselves why exactly?” she asked, voice syrupy sweet, eyes blazing.

I took a sip of ice water, stalling for time, but David already had an answer. “Because I don’t trust you,” he said. “Her,” David added, gesturing to me with a teaspoon, “I trust.”

Miss Annemarie reemerged with our food—chicken salad for me and Saylor, a club sandwich for David. As she set it down on the table, Miss Annemarie smiled at me. “How are your aunts, Harper?”

“Fine, thank you,” I said, hoping that would be enough. I loved the old ladies in my town, but dear God, they could talk. And Miss Annemarie didn’t show any signs of quitting. “And your parents?”

“Also fine, thank you, Miss Annemarie.”

The old woman sighed and shook her head, chins wobbling. “They’ve been so strong after your sister passed. Such a tragedy.”

I forced a tight smile. “They have, yes.”

“I’m keeping y’all on my prayer list,” she murmured, patting me on the shoulder before shuffling back to the kitchen. Now the two women by the window were looking over at us, squinting like they were trying to recognize me. Yes, I wanted to say, I am Leigh-Anne Price’s sister. Yes, that Leigh-Anne, the Homecoming Queen who wrapped her car around a tree when she was totally smashed.

“You okay?” David asked in a low voice.

Clearing my throat, I speared a mayo-coated grape with my fork. “Yup. Now, back to what we were saying about Blythe. She told David that they didn’t want to kill him anymore; now they want to do a spell on him. Apparently it’s the same one—”

I didn’t get to finish. Saylor’s hand was shaking so badly she nearly dropped her tiny cup of oolong.

She put it back in the saucer amid a clatter of china. “Alaric’s ritual.”

“That’s the one,” David said around a mouthful of club sandwich. “But Blythe said it only went so badly with Alaric because he wasn’t a Mage. She thinks if she tried it—”