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“I didn’t actually get that far. I knocked the priest out before he had the chance to ordain me.” It’s not something I’m entirely proud of, but the unamused look on her face tells me she’s not impressed, anyway.

“Thalia is quite the little vixen, however chaste.” Remus leans back in his chair, eyes on me as he licks the remains of the slurped soup from his lips. “My favorite moment was when she spat in Madame Beaumont’s face after the games.”

Agatha rolls her eyes. “How bold.” Gaze dipping, she tips her head. “What a pretty necklace.”

I suddenly wish my neckline wasn’t exposed, given the longing in her eyes. “It belonged to my grandmother.”

“I’ve always wanted pearls. Hard to come by out here.”

“Thalia … perhaps you wouldn’t mind allowing Agatha to borrow your necklace this evening?”

“It’s … a family heirloom. It means--” I don’t bother to finish, guessing that anything meaningful to me makes it twice as coveted. “I don’t actually think it’s a real pearl.”

“Still. It’s pretty. I want it.”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you. I’m not giving you my necklace.”

Lips curved to a fake smile, Remus tips his head. “Seems petty to guard something you suspect is worthless.”

“It’s worth isn’t measured in its authenticity.”

“Perhaps it’s a measure of your freedom, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re certainly entitled to keep the necklace.” He waves his hand in the air, as if dismissing my refusal as nothing but impudence. “Just as we’re entitled to lock you in your cell. Your choice.”

Bastard.

“Fine. She can borrow it.” Unhooking the clasp, I remove the necklace from my neck and reach across the table to deposit it next to her.

With a bright, undoubtedly feigned smile, Agatha lifts it from the table and fastens it around her neck. “As if it was made for my skin tone. Don’t you agree, Remus?”

“Absolutely. I like it better on you.”

The guard I ran into down in the lower level steps into the room and crosses to stand behind Remus, who remains sort of sprawled in his chair, his eyes still drinking me in from across the table as they rove me up and down. “Sir, my apologies for interrupting.”

Not bothering to face the man, Remus groans. “What is it now?”

“It’s Titus. His wounds appear to be festering a bit. He refuses to clean them, as I … as you … instructed.” With a nod, the guard sends me a tight-lipped smile.

Huffing, Remus twists to face the guard, seeming to catch his smile, before glancing back at me. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing, Sir.”

“Nothing? It doesn’t look like nothing. It looks like you’re eye-fucking Thalia.” The boldness of his words have my cheeks heating with embarrassment. Sighing, he shoves a bite of steak from his watery soup into his mouth and, without bothering to look back at the guard, says around a mouthful, “Take your pants off.”

“Pardon?”

“Take. Your pants. Off.”

The guard’s eyes dart to mine and back.

“Again, with the looking.”

“I mean no disrespect, Sir--”

“Either take your pants off, or I’ll have you thrown over the cliff.”