While Ethel and Abel hurried through the makeshift markets before the lines grew long, Barclay caught Viola frowning at the decorations.

“What’s the matter?” he asked her. “You don’t like Midwinter?”

“It’s not that,” Viola answered, sighing. “It’s that Midwinter is one of the only times Gravaldor wakes without being summoned. Since I couldn’t trap him, Midwinter is my last chance…”

“If you want to bond with him,” Barclay finished for her.

“If I don’t leave tonight, I’ll never make it to the center of the Woods in time. And so I have to… I need to…” She fiddled with her leather bookmark in A Traveler’s Log, and Barclay recognized the look of someone torn. “But I want to see the rest of the Exhibition. And yesterday, when you saw Gravaldor from Klara’s illusion Lore, you looked so frightened. And I’m scared that all along I’ve been making a mistake.”

Barclay had always thought Viola’s plan to bond with Gravaldor was a mistake, but he didn’t think it nice to say that. So instead, he told her, “I hope you stay.”

And that was all he got to say. Because a moment later, Erhart had fished two slips of paper out of Soren’s basket.

“ ‘Ethel Zader,’ ” Erhart read. Ethel stiffened beside them. “ ‘Barclay Thorne.’ ”

Barclay avoided Ethel’s gaze as they met at the edge of the field. Barclay had hoped, more than anything, to avoid fighting Ethel, who wanted to win nearly as much as he did.

Before Barclay could take a nervous step toward the proctors, Ethel grabbed him by his scarf and yanked him aside.

“Look, Barclay. I know how much first place means to you,” Ethel told him fiercely. “But it means something to me, too. And so I’m not going to let you win.”

“I never expected you to,” he said.

Her brown eyes glimmered mischievously. “And don’t think you need to take it easy on me either, like you did everyone else. I’d love to see you and Root in action.”

That wasn’t the reason Barclay never summoned Root for a match, but he didn’t have a chance to tell her so. Abel impatiently pushed them both onto the field.

“Good luck,” Barclay told her.

Ethel grinned. “Keep your luck. You’ll need it.”

On the grass, Erhart and Soren whispered to each other. Erhart’s face, normally flushed pink from the cold, had gone very pale.

“Surely you must be overreacting, Soren. I’d heard rumors about her and Cyril, of course. But this… It’s unthinkable!”

“I… I don’t think I am,” Soren said gravely, his voice sounding fake and dramatic. He paused and glanced at Barclay and Ethel, as though he had forgotten that he and the High Keeper were in the middle of proctoring a match.

“What’s unthinkable?” Barclay asked coolly. “We already know you’re not above attacking students.”

“Really, now,” Erhart blustered. “I could disqualify you, you know.” But, seeing all the expectant faces around them, Erhart seemed to think better of that idea. He handed Barclay and Ethel their flags, then led Soren out of their way and raised his voice over the buzz of the crowds. “Begin!”