Though he tried to follow along with what others were doing, every so often, Han would pick up the wrong fork or eat things in the wrong order, or use the wrong sauce on the wrong thing, and Mordra would correct him in her player’s whisper, sending the room into silent convulsions of laughter.

The only ones not laughing were Dean Abelard, Dancer, Mordra, and Fiona.

Fiona?

All through dinner she drank wine but ate very little, pushing the food around her plate with a scowl on her face until the servers took it away. She drummed her fingers on the table and shifted in her seat.

Sitting next to me takes away her appetite? Han thought.

Several times, Master Gryphon leaned across the table and tried to engage Fiona in conversation, but she seemed distracted, as if she scarcely heard him.

Finally she leaned across Han to speak to Mordra. “Just stop it!” she hissed, as Mordra opened her mouth to speak when Han went to butter his roll, likely with the wrong knife.

“What?” Mordra blinked at her.

“You of all people should not be correcting anyone’s manners!” Fiona went on, her voice brittle as steel at solstice. “You are a disaster.”

Mordra thrust her chin out. “I was just trying to—”

“Stay away from Alister, or you’ll be more of a pariah than you already are,” Fiona warned.

“Both of you shut it!” Han exploded, slamming his hands down on the table, rattling the china and sloshing wine out of glasses. “It’d be easier to eat in the middle of a tavern brawl than to sit between the two of you.”

The room went dead silent.

Fiona scraped back her chair and stood. “Dean Abelard, please excuse me. I’m not feeling well.” She swept out of the hall without a backward glance.

Han looked across the table to where Micah sat staring at him, eyes narrowed in appraisal. Gryphon gazed after Fiona until she disappeared through the doorway, then fixed his uncanny eyes on Han, his face pale and furious. Dean Abelard propped her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her hands, a faint smile curving her lips.

Han stopped eating then, too, unwilling to chance more lessons from Mordra. She rattled on, and he answered in short sentences.

Finally, the endless dinner was over. Students and faculty collected into chatty groups. Han and Dancer left the hall by the back door in order to avoid contact with anyone.

“We have to do this every month?” Han muttered, the rich meal like an anvil in his middle. “Bloody bones.”

“Fiona Bayar and Mordra deVilliers were fighting over you?” The wind rattled branches overhead, and Dancer turned his collar up. When Han glared at him, he added, “It looked like it to me.”

“I got no idea what that was all about,” Han said. “Fiona doesn’t want anyone to talk to us. Maybe she wants to isolate us more than we already are.”