“You don’t need to pressure him,” Viola snapped. “Barclay has enough to think about. Don’t you, Barclay?”

Barclay dodged her pointed look, his face reddening. If Viola had changed her mind about going after Gravaldor, then maybe he could change his mind about being a Lore Keeper, too.

No, he thought, thinking of his parents. His situation was different.

“It’s not pressure,” Abel said. “It’s just… very strong support. I just don’t want to see fish food win.”

Someone grabbed Abel by the shoulder and spun him around. It was Tadg, seething. He let go of Abel and cracked his knuckles.

“If you like it so much,” Tadg growled, “I’d be happy to send you back to your mirror world.”

Abel jolted and spilled his mug all over the table. “Why do you keep doing that? You stalking us now?”

Tadg ignored him and met eyes with Barclay. “I was wondering if I could speak with you in private.”

Barclay didn’t like the idea, but he doubted even Tadg would try something the night before the final match, especially in such a public place. His friends, however, shot him warning looks.

“Whatever you want to say to Barclay,” said Viola coolly, “you can say in front of all of us.” Mitzi nodded and squawked in agreement.

“It’s fine,” Barclay mumbled, not wanting to cause a scene.

He followed Tadg out of the tent toward the field. It was so crowded with people stargazing on quilts and shopkeepers selling sparkler sticks and peppermint bark that it was difficult for Barclay to picture battling Tadg here tomorrow.

Like Barclay, Tadg had won all his matches without even needing to summon his Beast.

“Um,” Barclay said awkwardly. “Whatever happens tomorrow, I—”

“The annual Exhibition is in the Spring every year. Did you know that?” Tadg asked. Barclay vaguely remembered Erhart mentioning how they’d moved it earlier, but he didn’t have a chance to respond before Tadg grumbled, “I mean, why would you? You’re from the Elsewheres.”

Barclay’s attempts at politeness quickly died.

“I get it—I don’t know anything about Lore Keepers! I’m not from a Wilderland! But I made it to the final match, just like you. I’m not—”

“The matches are just a show. They don’t matter,” Tadg spat. “Why do you think the Exhibition was moved to Midwinter?”

“I don’t… I don’t know,” Barclay hissed. “What do you mean, that the matches are just a show?” Tadg was fidgeting, agitated. He wasn’t making any sense.

“Do you really think you’d get this far if they weren’t? Some of the students already have Masters, and the Exhibition isn’t even over.”

At that, his gaze shifted to the tents behind Barclay. Barclay turned to see what he was looking at, and he spotted Soren, drinking with Erhart and several other Masters. Barclay stiffened.

“Are you threatening me?” Barclay asked him. “Well, you and Soren—”

“Me and Soren, what?” Tadg took an aggressive step closer.

“You’re working together, aren’t you? Like how he and your father were writing his next book together? You already have your Master.”