It would be magical if it didn’t make my stomach twinge.
“You good?” Morgan asks.
“Yes,” I confirm. “Just…taking it all in.”
“I know, right?” she murmurs. “It’s…a lot.”
Once again, the long tables are thrown over with tablecloths, this time in pure white. The centerpiece is a combination of frosted-looking branches and woven symbols made out of grass.
“Very nice,” Morgan says, brushing one with a fingertip as we pass. “St. Brigid’s Cross. You know, Brigid wasn’t even a saint until somebody appropriated her for their own purposes.” She throws a meaningful look at Lanz and Callahan.
“Hey, don’t look at me,” Lanz says.
“Yeah, we weren’t there,” adds Callahan.
I snicker in spite of myself. It’s strange. I can feel that the air is chilly around me, but it’s like it doesn’t bother me. Morgan’s perfume, I suppose. The music drifts overhead, weaving in with voices and clinking of glasses. And it’s almost enough to feel normal until I see the high table.
Once again, it’s for faculty and deans and trustees. But now with an addition: the white-robed figures we saw earlier. I shiver even though I’m not cold.
“So weird,” Morgan mutters.
“Right?” I glance back at them. Some of them are talking amongst themselves, but not to anyone else. A thought occurs to me. How do they even—I glance at Lanz and Callahan—you know, through those masks?
“What, eat?” Lanz says. He squints, shakes his head. “Uh, they probably won’t. Not here. In France, at mealtimes you had to keep your eyes on your plate in front of you. So, it’s not like we ever made eye contact.”
“You were there?” I ask. “At the monastery?”
“Well, yeah.” Lanz puts his hands in his pockets. “That’s where we had to train and be consecrated.” He glances at Callahan. “Except Callahan. We brought him on later.”
“It’s a whole deal,” Morgan confirms. “My mom and I just stayed in Paris while these guys were off, I don’t know, self-flagellating and praying or whatever.”
“It wasn’t exactly—” Lanz purses his lip. “Sure, fine, whatever.” He catches Callahan’s eye and nods up at the high table.
“We’ve got to go,” I say. “Please.” It almost sounds rude to add, but the two of them nod and take their leave.
Finally, I think. I hug my arms around myself, remembering now that I have no gloves on, but nobody seems to be staring,either because they already know I’m a freak or because they’re too soused on wine to care.
“How long does this all usually take?” I ask Morgan.
“Oof,” she exhales. “Dinner, the little ceremony thing, then they clear everything away for dancing.”
“Dancing?” I interrupt.
“Well, yes, that’s what a ball tends to mean,” she says. “Did you not think any of this through?”
“No,” I admit. “I kind of just have to go where I’m told.”
“I know. But hey,” she says, “at least this time there’s no assigned seating. We’re supposed to”—she waves a hand through the air—“mingle with the guests from the other schools.”
That’s right, I realize. The other two colleges are here for the tournament tomorrow, plus their cheering sections or fan bases, I suppose, because there are definitely some girls here I don’t recognize, too.
“I guess I’ll manage,” I say. “I’ll just get through this and then go home and curl up into a ball, which is where I want to be anyway. And at least this time I won’t be poisoned, probably.”
“We’ll try to make a night of it,” Morgan says, flicking her hair over her shoulder.
A clear bell rings out, a call for us to take our seats for dinner. I look around, thinking of the usual panic I’d have when trying to find a place to settle in the dining hall. This time, I just follow Morgan’s lead.
“Here,” she says, indicating a chair at a table a stone’s throw away. “This fellow looks intriguing.”
