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I offer a rude gesture in response, keeping my face buried, and she cackles. George hops onto the bed and sits directly on my back. I shove him grumpily toward his owner. “I’m not being dramatic. I have a plight.”

“A plight?” She gasps dramatically. I expose an eye to glare at her. Her face is inches from mine and grinning broadly. If I wanted, I could count every freckle across her cheeks and nose. She pinches my cheek. “You’re a poet. You’ll always be dramatic. But I love you for it.”

I groan and flip to my back to stare at the ceiling. Our dormitory is small, the worn furniture all shoved together, covering any bare wall we might’ve had. But Poppy and I made it our own at the beginning of the fall term. We took discarded jars from the kitchens, the ones the cooks use for fruit and pickled things, and wielded the Light to catch the glow of a blood moon in them. Now they illumine our room with an eerie red glow. Hugo says it looks creepy, which only makes us love it more.

“I can’t go,” I tell her. “My godfather banished me to the tower for the evening. Looks like you’ll have to stare adoringly at Hugo without me.”

“What? Why would he do that?”

I don’t tell her the truth—I can’t. But I give her enough of it that she doesn’t push for more information. “I broke a rule. You know me. He found out, and I guess he’s had enough. Claimed I was too far along in my education for this nonsense.”

After a minute of silence, she shakes her head, scratching George between the ears. “So I’ll stay with you.”

I snort. “No.”

“Yes, I will. I’ll steal some desserts, and we’ll get the cards out. We’ll give each other readings and eat till we’re sick.”

“You’re going to your last Solstice feast. I’m not going to let you miss it. I won’t be responsible for breaking poor Hugo’s heart.”

She rolls her eyes. “You don’t know that he even likes me.”

“Oh, don’t even.”

She’s convinced she’s undesirable—because she’s quiet until she’s comfortable with a person, because she doesn’t have the edginess she thinks makes a girl appealing, because she’d probably rather sit in the tower and read cards than go to a dance. Poppy is softness and kindness and the color pink. She is the first ray of sunshine on a winter morning and the beginning note of my favorite song. Hugo and I might be the ones making jokes in our group, but Poppy is the one snorting her juice through her nose from laughter.

And she’s gorgeous. Hair like a sunset in reckless long curls, eyes as big and blue as the sea, curves everywhere. I see the way Hugo looks at her, and the fact that she can’t see it herself honestly infuriates me.

We’ve always been like this. When we started at Gossemort together, I had a fleeting, ridiculous crush on Poppy. She was the friendliest in our year, and from the moment she smiled at me, all the spare space in my brain was occupied with her laughter and intelligence and chaotic curls. It all led up to one foolhardy moment at our first Solstice feast when I confessed my feelings in a blurt of anxiety. She laughed and told me that if we dated, we’d drive each other crazy, which was true then and is now. We agreed to be best friends, and that was that.

We lie in silence for a long moment. I stare up at the red-tinged ceiling, grinding my teeth. And then a terrible, unruly thought unfurls in my mind like a rose.

“Let’s both go.” I whisper it so softly it’s hardly audible.

Poppy is silent for a moment. “What, just . . . sneak in?”

“Why not?” I turn to face her.

The corners of her lips turn down. Her eyes search mine. “I might not be much for dancing. My leg.”

“That’s fine. You can hang back with me. We can make Hugo sneak us cheese and champagne and eat it under the table.”

“You’re such a rebel. If the headmaster is punishing you by keeping you here, what’ll he do if he finds out you defied him and went anyway?”

I grin wickedly back at her. “Whatever he does can’t be worse than missing the feast. Come on, I don’t want to be good. Let’s be disastrous women. Untamable bitches.”

Her deep blue eyes spark to life. “A night we’ll never forget.”

Chapter Seven

My timepiece does not go with my dress. Its face is surrounded by beautiful copper, decorated with constellations and intricate etchings. But it’s large and draws attention away from anything I wear. I could change it out for another necklace, but it belonged to my mother. I never take it off. So down the front bodice of my dress it goes while I stand before the mirror, fiddling with my hair. It’s always been a bit wild, like a bird’s used it as a nest.

My dress is brilliant white with a scooped neckline and a skirt that falls in folds, reminding me of the discarded balls of paper that litter my bedroom floor—drafts of poems that will never see the light of day. Poppy had to talk me into the shoes. They’re white with beautiful sparkling beads of silver, and they’re tall enough to make walking difficult. I’d just as soon wear my school shoes, but since Hugo misplaced them, I decide to tolerate these.

Tonight’s banquet is a masquerade. My mask is a dramatic contrast to my dress—bloodred beads create swirls around my eyes on scarlet silk. My scythe is strapped to my back as well—at Gossemort, we go nowhere without our anchors to the Light. I look as though I’m about to get married on a battlefield.

Poppy wears an emerald dress with golden ivy along the collar and a mask made of actual ivy enchanted to shimmer in the light. Poppy and I are arm in arm when we slip into the side entrance of the Founders Hall. Bright dresses and midnight tailcoats spangle the hall. The room is full of masks, all elaborate. One girl’s mask looks like an enormous ship with sails and a mast, Gaultish flag fluttering magically from its height. A boy has a mask of black snakes that writhe and twist over his skin.

From the balcony, an ensemble of enchanted instruments play a waltz that wafts down from where the great chandelier twinkles overhead, golden spires hanging like icicles from its every branch. Everything is gold and red and beautiful. It reminds me of one of my father’s stories—a tale of a shipwreck in which the musicians continued to play in the ship’s ballroom, and the voyagers kept dancing even as the ship sank into stormy waters. The thought cools my giddiness and reminds me why I have my scythe strapped to my back.