“Do you stargaze?” Brella stared heavenward, eyes far away. Her finger twitched, subtly pointing at one of Lollie’s older bandits. Scratch raised her eyes and the girl turned quickly away, making an unconvincing attempt to appear interested in the untouched plate on her lap.

“Um, yes,” Scratch murmured. “But these stars are . . . different.”

“Different stars, different gods.” Brella reached a hand upward, then dropped it to her side. “Do you see that cluster with the three stars? The one with the red star to the left?”

She did. The God of Storms should have occupied that spot. “Yes.”

“That’s the God of Bladder Stones.”

“There’s no God of Bladder Stones.”

“Oh yeah? Then who do you pray to when you have bladder stones?”

“Uh, the God of Healing?”

Brella waved her away. “He’s too busy with consumptive children to concern himself with bladder stones. And there, the green star with two below?”

“Uh huh.”

“The God of Falling Asleep Whilst Reading.”

Scratch laughed. She couldn’t help it. And then, “I think I’ve spotted another.”

Brella arched an eyebrow. “Have you?”

“Look there.” She pointed up, and Brella drew close to follow her finger. Brella was warm against her side, solid and real. She swallowed. “There.” Her voice was barely a whisper in the inky night. “The God of Sneezing with Your Mouth Open.”

Brella cackled, pushing her away, and Scratch bounced back as if drawn. They went on like that for a while, invoking the God of Three-Legged Dogs with Sad Eyes and the God of Spilling Beer on a Rude Man at a Pub and the God of Posh Eastern Accents, the last of which caused James to poke up his head and demand an explanation for why they were laughing at him, and could they kindly stop. Of course, they only laughed harder.

While Brella pointed—“Up over there, the God of Un-pickable Wedgies”—Scratch allowed herself an indulgent look. She watched Brella’s full mouth as she spoke, gazed at the bronze locks that fell down her back. This was what Brella really looked like, without fear, without anger. Even in the deep blue shade of night, she radiated the warmth of sunrise, her hair as brown and warm as a loaf of fresh bread. The woman was all breakfast—bright, welcome breakfast, like the yolk of an egg or the underside of a griddled cake. She was an apparition of morning time, and Scratch had always liked morning best.

Oh, yuck. James had been right: Scratch really was a romantic.