We walk to dinner, as we do most things, hand in hand. Down a staircase carpeted in lush green with swirling patterns of tan, through ornate oak-paneled halls, I’m reminded briefly of the Commodore Club where the Sons of Saint Druon used to meet. They still do meet there, probably. I know only the barest details of their activities now. It is Florence who keeps tabs on them. Maxine and I are under strict instruction to focus only on our studies and our students. “Romps into the city, I encourage,” Florence told us. “Late-night break-ins and blood on your hands, I do not.” We could have ignored her warnings, she knew that as well as we did, but it was a relief to allow myself to rest.

Florence and Ann took their evidence of the Sons of Saint Druon’s life-costing factory negligence to the city. The witches and the Sons buried their dead, and the centuries-long stalemate between the witches of Haxahaven and the Sons of Saint Druon resumed.

I’ve heard nothing of the Sons in nearly two years, save for a single piece of information. Finn D’Arcy, my brother’s killer, my friend, my… something more, perhaps, was run out of New York City as punishment for his failed coup attempt. Turns out the leaders of industry and magical magnates of New York didn’t take too kindly to an eighteen-year-old murdering their friends and colleagues in a power grab. He was lucky to make it out with his life, we heard. He hasn’t been seen since.

I don’t know where they buried Boss Olan, but we buried Mrs. Vykotsky on the edge of the back lawn, under a gnarled old oak tree. She wouldn’t have wanted to rest anywhere other than the school, I’m sure of it. I go to the grave when I can’t sleep and want to apologize again. I visit her often.

“All right, I’m starting to understand the ‘Versailles of the Atlantic’ thing,” Lena says as we step into the formal dining room.

Our three heads tilt in unison to look up at the domed ceiling, easily two stories up, set in a Tiffany-glass mosaic.

“If this thing sinks, that’ll be the first to go,” Maxine quips from beside me.

“I hate you,” I reply.

We give our names to the tuxedoed host who shows us to our table. As three single young ladies, we’re seated with two old widows, one young Englishwoman, and her husband, who might be the oldest person I’ve ever seen in my life. He’s hunched in his chair wearing a tuxedo that probably once fit and a gold watch so large it must be difficult for him to lift his thin wrist.