The week crept by like fog through the cloisters. Classes resumed for the most part as the healthy wolves have been slowly reintegrated into the student ecosystem. Each of them now wore silver suppression bands, slim cuffs locked around their wrists. The metal gleamed faintly, etched with wardwork so fine it looked like veins beneath the surface.
When a heartbeat spiked too sharply, when adrenaline surged, when a growl even began to form in the chest, the bands activated—glowing dull red, then bright, the sigils tightening like a noose around the magic in their blood.
Not painful. Just absolute.
It was enough, but barely, for the administration to claim they had taken precautions. Enough to pretend the wolves could attend the Founders' Masquerade without feeling like walking threats. A way to say, See? They're stable. They're safe. Let them dance.
But the sick ones, the ones who looked like Danny, the ones who were fevered and half-shifted, eyes clouded with silver? They didn't return to class.
They stayed in the infirmary, tucked behind warded screens and whispered diagnoses, while Reichenbach tried to sew normalcy back together stitch by stitch with trembling hands.
The halls buzzed with the illusion of normalcy, but the silence at Reichenbach still lingered; it filled the spaces between laughter and hummed beneath the skin.
Xavier stood at the edge of the archery range, bow in hand, shoulders tight.
The rhythm should have been easy: breathe, aim, release. It was a routine at this point, but every time the string sang, he saw Thorn back in the infirmary. With garlic burns, blooming like fire against the skin. Thorn gasping for air as her throat closed. Dead weight in his arms as he carried her to get help.
Marcellus's voice cut through the air. "You planning to actually hit the target today, Thorpe, or just brood it into submission?"
Xavier didn't answer.
His hand tightened around the bow, and his arrow thudded into the hay far left of the ring. Xavier exhaled through his nose, jaw locking as Marcellus laughed, the sound slick and self-satisfied.
Xavier's fingers itched to do something. To ball his fist up and punch him in his face, to break his stupid fucking glasses in half.
He wanted to shove Marcellus up against the wall and ask him what the hell he'd mixed into that blood bag. Anything to wipe that stupid, smug grin off his face, but he didn't. Not yet.
Just as Xavier turned to look away, the late afternoon sunlight caught on Marcellus's hand. A ring, silver chased with gold. The sigil carved into its face wasn't decorative. Xavier froze immediately.
It was the same symbol burned into Mercier's journal.
The Mercurial Sigil.
He barely had time to process it before the sound of hushed whispers filled the air. Thorn.
The entire archery team went rigid. A few lowered their bows. Someone actually took a step back.
She stopped at the edge of the field, her expression unreadable, gaze sweeping over the stunned faces.
"Relax," she said dryly, "I'm not here to eat anyone."
"This time," a soft smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.
Silence. No one laughed.
Thorn's eyes slid to Xavier, a smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth. "Come on, Thorpe. We've got detention."
The team collectively exhaled. Too fast, too relieved. Thorn turned, cloak flicking behind her as she walked off.
Xavier followed. He didn't look back, but he could feel Marcellus's stare burning between his shoulder blades.
Xavier caught up with Thorn in a few long strides. He gave her a small glance and huffed, "This time? Really?"
Thorn scoffed softly, "You saw the looks on their faces, it would have been a crime against humanity to not mess with them a little."
"You're really thriving as The Monster of Reichenbach. Aren't you?"
She grinned sideways. "Someone's gotta keep the myth alive."
The smirk faded as they rounded the corner toward the library hall, where the air always smelled of decaying books and lemon polish.
Professor Alarie's version of detention was "archival duty," which, as Thorn muttered, was just academic code for legalized snooping.
They sat at a long oak table in the back of the History Wing; students hardly wandered this far back; the room always felt too big for the living.
The air was thick with dust and candle soot. Stacks of half-burned ledgers and warped parchment crowded the tabletop. Some were bound with rusted clasps, others so fragile that the mere act of touching them felt like corrupting an ancient artifact. Wax seals had melted into dark stains across the wood, and the faint smell of old ink hung like something embalmed.
Thorn brushed a thin layer of dust off one of the covers with the back of her sleeve.
"Try not to sneeze," she murmured, flipping the page carefully. "These things look like they'd disintegrate if we breathe wrong."
"I'll hold my breath," Xavier said, voice muffled as he leaned over a brittle ledger.
His pencil whispered across the paper, tracing a cracked emblem in the corner margin. "Look, right here—"
Thorn reached for the next page of the ledger, and the parchment snapped sharply under her fingertip.
"Ow! shit!" She jerked her hand back on instinct.
The cut was immediate and vicious. It was one of those deep, stinging slices that old paper seemed uniquely designed to inflict. A bright line of blood welled up along the side of her finger, then another, beading fast.
Xavier's head snapped up.
"Oh. Ooh shit. Hold on." He shoved back his chair so fast it screeched across the stone. "There's a roll of brown paper towels by the door... just, don't bleed on anything, Alarie will kill us."
"Relax," Thorn sighed, wincing but not panicking. "I've got it."
Before he could take a whole step, she lifted her hand, brought the bleeding finger to her mouth, and ran her tongue along the wound.
The healing happened instantly.
The torn skin pulled together in a clean line, the blood vanished, and when she lowered her hand again, the cut was gone. Her skin was smooth as if nothing had happened at all.
Xavier froze mid-stride, eyes widening.
He stared at her finger. Then at her face. Then back to her finger.
"…How," he said slowly, "did you do that?"
Thorn blinked once, as if remembering she wasn't supposed to have done that in front of someone.
"It's just a paper cut," she said, shrugging a little too casually. "And I heal fast."
"That's not 'heal fast.'" He stepped closer, brows drawn. "That was instant. Thorn, you didn't even flinch."
She smirked faintly, turning another page as if nothing strange had happened.
"Guess you aren't the only one with secrets."
Thorn leaned closer to the book, her shadow spilling over the page. The mark was faint but still legible: seven circles connected by narrow, uneven lines. Each one was ringed with runes that looked too deliberate to be decoration.
The heading above it was smudged but readable under the lamp's glow:
The Seven Resonant Anchors.
Thorn frowned, the words settling somewhere heavy in her chest. "Anchors," she echoed softly. "As in… what? Stabilizers?"
"Or tether points," Xavier said, brow furrowed. "If the Minstrels built their resonance into the foundations, they'd need fixed nodes to channel it through the school." He flipped another page, the parchment sighing under his fingers. "It's almost like—"
"A network," Thorn finished for him. She traced one of the circles with the edge of her nail. "Each one feeding the others."
Each line listed a location: The Chapel, The Lake, The Forest, The Bell Tower, The Library, The Founders' Courtyard, and, beneath the scorch marks, The Great Hall.
The journal lay open between them, its edges singed. Xavier traced the geometry of the "seven anchors" while Thorn compared them to the old campus map.
"At least we know where all the anchor points are." She muttered mainly to herself.
"Maybe," Xavier said, chewing the inside of his cheek. "But knowing where they are and knowing what they do are two different things."
Thorn folded her arms atop the table, leaning in until her hair brushed the fragile edges of the page. "So we keep reading. There has to be something here. Some hint. Some rule."
Xavier lifted the broken-spined ledger and tilted it toward the lantern, revealing more faint diagrams along the margins. Circles, sigils, and arcs that looked like musical notation trapped in geometric cages.
"Look at this," he said quietly.
He opened to a fresh page of his sketchbook and began copying the patterns. It wasn't perfect, but it was instinctive. Wherever the original lines were smooth, his hand sketched them jagged. Wherever the runes curved, he sharpened them. Thorn didn't know what he was doing, and by the look on his face, he didn't either.
"The original lines are too…" he hesitated, searching. "Clean. Balanced."
"And that's bad?" Thorn asked.
"In a place like Reichenbach?" He gave her a hollow smile. "Perfect balance usually means something's about to tip over."
Thorn snorted under her breath and reached for another brittle book. Its cover flaked like old bark beneath her fingers. Every movement stirred tiny clouds of dust that turned silver in the lamplight. She flipped past untranslated hymns, ritual directives, and notes written in the Minstrels' peculiar shorthand.
"Xavier, look." She held up a page. Someone had drawn the same seven-circle sigil, but this version had annotations scrawled in the margins: air; bone; ink; memory; time; echo; blood. The words looked almost scraped in, like the writer had rushed or panicked.
Xavier's eyes darkened with recognition. "Elements," he murmured. "Or mediums. Like… how the Resonance travels."
"Through the school," Thorn said. Her voice had gone soft, low with realization. "Or, through us."
Xavier didn't answer right away. He turned the page. More diagrams. More circles. More interpretations. Some of the notes contradicted each other, written by different hands decades apart. Thorn could feel each one settling in her chest like lead.
"It's not telling us how they work," she said, frustration creeping into her voice.
"Maybe it can't," Xavier said. "Maybe the Minstrels didn't even fully understand it."
He pressed his palm flat against the sketch he'd just made. The ink hadn't dried yet. The lines shimmered faintly, breathing with the faintest pulse of ambient magic.
Thorn's brows pulled together. "Why does that look… off?"
"What do you mean?"
"It's not the same as the journal drawing. It feels different."
Xavier stared at his own sketch, startled. "I wasn't trying to change it."
"No," she said. "But you did."
She reached out, hovering her fingers just above the ink. She didn't touch it, but she felt something, almost like a tightness. A soft discord under her skin. As if the lines were humming slightly out of tune.
Her throat tightened. "Xavier… what if that's the point?"
"What is?"
She gestured to both diagrams, the perfect original and his imperfect copy. "They built something balanced. Harmonized. But the Resonance…" she swallowed, "…the song doesn't feel balanced. It feels wrong. And your version..."
"Feels wrong on purpose," he finished quietly. "Like the rune I drew in Mrs. Weaver's class… it was just a mirrored version of the one we have been seeing everywhere. That's why it was enough to tell it to leave, but not enough to stop it for good."
Thorn closed the journal with a soft snap. "We need more than diagrams and poetry. We need to know what these anchors actually do. One by one."
Xavier's gaze drifted back to his sketch. To the jagged lines and the broken symmetry. "And maybe what they can't do," he murmured.
"Or what we can undo."
Thorn nodded once. Firm. Resolved. "Then we start with the one that's already lined up."
Xavier lifted his eyes to hers.
"The Great Hall."
The air seemed to tilt around them. Dust drifted in the lamplight.
And somewhere deep in the floorboards, Thorn thought she felt the faintest tremor, like the song was listening and answered them back.
They exchanged a look that felt too heavy for two teenagers in an abandoned part of the library.
Xavier slid his sketchbook shut.
Thorn gathered the journals.
Neither needed to say it aloud:
They had no idea what they were doing, but they were going to figure it out anyway.
The library doors whispered shut behind them, swallowing the dust and candlelight. Outside, the rain had softened to a steady mist that clung to their clothes as they crossed the quad. Students slipped past in small clusters, laughing too loudly, trying too hard to pretend everything was normal. Neither Thorn nor Xavier joined the act.
They walked in silence. It wasn't awkward, just weighted. The heaviness of the hat settles onto your shoulders after new knowledge you can't unlearn.
By the time they reached the Observatory stairwell, their shadows stretched long across the stone, falling into step like a third and fourth companion.
Thorn keyed open her door. Warm light spilled out as they stepped into the dorm, the shift from rain-soaked stone to familiar warmth almost disorienting.
Thorn exhaled. "Do you mind if I call my mom? I should ask her about the dress for the dance."
"Yeah," Xavier said softly. "Go for it."
She moved to her bed, folding into her usual cross-legged spot before lifting the phone to her ear. The phone rang a few times before static filled her ear.
"My little storm cloud! How are you, Mi Sombra?"
"Hey, Mom… do you think you could send me a dress for the Masquerade? Pippa's date can't go, so I'm going with her."
Her mother's voice came through warm and smoky. "A dress, hmm? My daughter attending a social function? Should I be concerned?"
Thorn's lips curved faintly. "Don't get used to it. It's for reconnaissance. Not fun."
Valerie laughed. It was low, fond, a little knowing. "Of course. I'll send something simple but elegant. Maybe I'll stitch a few protection runes into the hem. You've been standing too close to the veil lately, mi luna."
Thorn's throat tightened. "I'm fine, Mamá. I promise."
"Resurrection leaves scars," Valerie said softly. "Even when the body forgets, the soul remembers."
Thorn swallowed, turning slightly away from Xavier so he couldn't read her expression. "I'll be okay. I always am."
"I know, mi vida. Just… cuídate."
"La bendición," Thorn whispered.
"Dios te bendiga."
Thorn pulled her phone away from her ear and pressed the red button on her screen. Valerie's words lingered long after the call ended, and across the room, Xavier looked up from his sketchbook. Her mother's voice still hung in the air, like incense that refused to fade.
"What does that mean?" he asked.
Thorn blinked. "What?"
"The thing you said at the end. I don't want to butcher it but… 'la ben…di…'" He made a vague gesture in the air. "That."
"La bendición?"
"Yeah."
She studied him for a second, trying to decide if he was teasing. He wasn't. He waited, open, patient, sketchbook forgotten in his lap.
"It's… asking for the blessing of someone you respect," she said finally. "A way of honoring them. Their guidance. Their… place in your life." Her voice gentled without her permission. "I only say it to my mother and father."
Xavier's expression softened, something warm flickering behind his eyes.
"That's—"
"Watch it," she warned automatically.
"I was just going to say it's sweet," he said, hands raised in surrender. "I don't think I've ever heard it before."
Xavier slowly moved to close his sketchbook with a soft thud. "You know," he said quietly, clearing his throat, "back in the infirmary… You mentioned you've died before."
Thorn didn't look at him. "You remember that, huh?"
"Kind of hard to forget something like that," he said.
Silence stretched, filled only by the whisper of rain against the window.
She leaned back on her palms, exhaling through her nose. "It's not exactly a fun story to tell."
"You don't have to," Xavier said softly, sensing the way her shoulders had gone still.
"No," she murmured, standing abruptly. "It's fine. You wanted to know."
Her voice wasn't angry. Just… tired.
"The summer before freshman year, there was this guy. We… dated, I guess." She crossed to her desk, fingers brushing over the electric kettle without turning it on. "He took me out into the woods one night to stargaze. At least, that's what he said. It was easy to get me to agree to something like that back then."
Xavier didn't move. He just waited.
Thorn's hand tightened around the kettle handle. "He wasn't all there mentally, you know? He was obsessed with some made-up god from an online horror forum that his friends found. He started calling it the Watcher in the Pines. He said that it wanted a sacrifice."
Her voice barely wavered, but the air in the room seemed to shrink around her.
"It got one," she continued.
Xavier rose halfway from his chair. "Thorn—"
Thorn cut him off quietly. "My mom found me a few hours later." Her eyes were still on the kettle, though her reflection in the metal was warped and trembling. "She brought me back with magic she wasn't supposed to use, and vampire blood. Curtsy of my father," she muttered, her fingers looped through the gold chain around her throat.
She gave a small, humorless laugh. "That's how you get a half-breed like me. Half mistake, half monster."
Xavier shook his head, the sketchbook slipping closed in his lap. "God, No. Thorn—no. You're not a mistake, and you're definitely not a monster."
"Tell that to Reichenbach."
She said it like a joke, but her eyes didn't lift from the floor.
Xavier hesitated, then quietly asked, "Who else knows… about it?"
Thorn lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. "Pippa. And one other girl I told right after it happened. She, uh… stopped being friends with me after."
Xavier's jaw tightened, but he didn't interrupt. The rain kept whispering against the glass, and neither of them spoke again for a long while.
Not until the door opened slowly.
Pippa walked into their dorm room, her eyes rimmed red but shining with that unyielding brightness she always tried to carry. In her hand, two silver-edged tickets.
Thorn straightened up at the sight of her, reaching out for the tickets.
"Danny already bought them," she said, forcing a laugh that trembled halfway through. "The Masquerade. He was gonna make me dance to something slow and embarrass us both."
Thorn hesitated. "Pip—"
"We're still going, right?"
Thorn swallowed. "…Yeah. We're still going."
Xavier leaned in the doorway, arms folded. "You can't actually think that's a good idea. Do you?"
"She needs it," Thorn said sharply. "And if anything happens, I'll be there."
He nodded once. "Then so will I."
Thorn rolled her eyes, "No offense, but dances don't really seem like your thing."
"Yeah, not really. The last dance I went to got me covered in fake pig's blood."
Thorn and Pippa both stared at Xavier for a moment, neither of them saying anything.
"What the actual fuck?" Pippa finally asked.
Xavier shrugged, "It was a prank pulled on us by the normies. The town next to Nevermore wasn't exactly happy about having a school for outcasts so close by."
Thorn blinked slowly, processing that. "You're kidding."
"I wish I were," Xavier said, rubbing the back of his neck. "They thought it'd be funny to crash our Rave'N dance. Pig's blood in the sprinkler system. Total Carrie moment."
Pippa's mouth dropped open. "Oh my god. That's, like, insane."
"Yeah. Kind of killed the vibe," he said dryly. "Punch, slow dancing, mass hysteria, and a few traumatized outcasts."
Thorn huffed, shaking her head. "You have the weirdest stories, Thorpe."
"Not weird," he said, half-smiling. "Just cursed."
Pippa glanced between them, her faint grin cracking through the grief. "Then maybe you'll fit right in. The Masquerade's always a little cursed."
Thorn gave her a look. "That's supposed to make me feel better?"
Pippa shrugged, setting the tickets carefully on Thorn's desk. "You're the one who agreed to go."
Thorn stared at the tickets for a moment. The silver trim caught the lamplight, turning the embossed mask design into something almost alive. The words Founders' Masquerade shimmered faintly across the surface. It was elegant, dangerous, and nearly inevitable.
Pippa's tone softened. "He'd want us to go, you know."
Thorn nodded once, too tight. "Yeah. He would."
Xavier shifted by the door, watching the unspoken weight settle between them. The quiet stretched, fragile and human.
Finally, he cleared his throat. "Well… if we're doing this, I guess I should find something that passes as formal."
Thorn arched a brow. "You? In a suit?"
He smirked faintly. "Don't sound so shocked. I clean up okay."
Pippa sniffled a laugh, brushing her sleeve across her eyes. "You're both impossible."
Thorn rolled her eyes, "The dance is a few days away, so you'd better get a suit soon."
"Eh, my father has a bunch of them on hand for me. During the summer, I had to attend a bunch of galas to try to undo the damage the murder accusations did."
Thorn blinked, the corner of her mouth twitching. "Right. Because nothing says innocent like a charity event."
Xavier gave a short, humorless laugh. "Exactly. 'Smile for the cameras, son. Try not to look homicidal.'" He slipped his hands into his pockets, his tone flat but edged with that familiar self-deprecation that was starting to sound more like armor than humor. "There were photographers, champagne, the whole thing. My father called it reputation management. I called it damage control with hors d'oeuvres."
Pippa wrinkled her nose. "That sounds awful."
"It was," Xavier admitted. "But hey, at least I've got a closet full of overpriced suits I'll never wear again. Might as well put one to use before it gathers dust."
Thorn crossed her arms, a sly smile creeping up. "So we're really doing this then? The Monster of Reichenbach and the accused murderer walking into a masquerade like it's prom night?"
"Sure," he said dryly. "What could possibly go wrong?"
Pippa looked between them, her grin bright and shaky all at once. "For what it's worth," she said softly, "Danny would've loved to see you two show up like that. He would've said it's poetic."
Thorn's smirk faltered, the words landing somewhere between her ribs. She looked down at the tickets still in her hands, her voice quieter now. "Then I guess we'll just have to make it count."
The room fell into a comfortable hush. Rain tapped at the windows; the candle on the nightstand burned low, its light catching the silver edges of the tickets.
Xavier pushed off the doorframe, his voice soft but certain. "I'll see what Alice can dig out of storage."
He lingered a second longer, watching the way the light haloed her hair, before he turned for the door. "Guess I'm going to have to match your dramatic energy somehow."
"You couldn't if you tried," she called after him.
"Challenge accepted," he said, his laugh trailing down the Hall.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Thorn and Pippa alone with the sound of the rain, and for the first time in weeks, something almost like anticipation threaded through the air instead of fear.
Pippa turned to Thorn with a small, mischievous smile.
"Sooooo," she sing-songed, twisting fully to face her. "What are you wearing to the dance?"
Thorn scoffed softly, shrugging as she crossed the room. She sat on the edge of her bed, arms folding tight over her chest like she needed the pressure. "Whatever my mom sends."
"Knowing Valerie, she's gonna send you something enchanted and gorgeous." Pippa smiled as she walked over to the desk and toyed with the kettle that sat on it.
Thorn groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "God, she probably will. Something with lace. And dramatic sleeves. And sixteen layers."
"Tragic," Pippa said with theatrical sympathy. "Being hot is such a burden."
Thorn rolled her eyes, but Pippa's grin widened. She knew Thorn well enough to recognize the faint softening around her mouth.
"She always makes a big deal about making my dress by hand," Thorn muttered. "It's like she…"
The sentence snagged. She blinked once, staring at her own boots. "It's like she..."
Her voice cracked off. She swallowed, jaw tightening.
Xavier hadn't meant to drag up every old ghost that haunted the night she died. She knew that. But it didn't change the way pieces of her chest still felt… uneven and raw around the seams.
Pippa's smile softened instantly. The teasing dropped away, replaced by something gentler.
"Hey." Pippa sat down next to her on the bed, careful not to touch her yet. "You don't have to pretend you're fine with all of it."
Thorn gave a humorless breath. "I'm not pretending. I just… don't want to talk about it."
"Okay," Pippa said, nodding. "Then we won't."
Silence pulled taut between them for a moment, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Not anymore.
Just… fragile.
Then Pippa bumped Thorn's knee lightly with her own.
"But," she said, voice deliberately brightening, "I am gonna talk about my dress because I've been dying to show you. I just haven't had the time since you've been running around chasing conspiracies with the tall, brooding, and possibly a murderous artist."
Thorn rolled her eyes again as she watched Pippa as she pushed herself off the bed and practically skipped towards her closet. The dress hanging in Pippa's hands looked like something spun out of a candle flame and a rose petal.
Layers of soft, blush-pink tulle floated gently away from the hanger, each one embroidered with delicate white and gold florals that shimmered when the light caught them. The bodice cinched in gracefully at the waist, shaped like it knew exactly how to flatter the person wearing it.
Thin spaghetti straps framed the neckline, but the real drama was in the off-shoulder tulle sleeves. They were soft, airy puffs that looked like they were barely clinging on, ready to drift away like fluffy little clouds.
The skirt fell in a whole, weightless cascade. The floral embroidery blooming across it in scattered constellations. The gold accents intertwined with pale rose-threading, giving the entire thing a quiet, enchanted glow. As if someone had caught dawn and sewn it into a dress.
It was romantic. Ethereal. Precisely the kind of dress Pippa deserved. Soft where the world had been sharp to her, glowing where grief had dimmed everything else.
"Wow," Thorn breathed. Her brows shot up before she could school her face. The dress looked like it belonged in a fairytale, or specifically on Pippa. The beauty of it was almost… unfair.
Pippa grinned, already holding it up to her in the mirror. "I know, right? I'm thinking a curly updo, but that means," she pointed accusingly, "I'm going to need your alternative-girl hair expertise," she muttered and reached up to hang the dress on the corner of their mirror.
Thorn snorted. "I don't have expertise in hair."
Pippa scoffed dramatically. "Tell that to your mirror, and to your 'Bloodlust' colored locks. There's no way someone with hair like that doesn't have skills."
Thorn rolled her eyes, but a small, reluctant smile tugged at her mouth. "Dyeing my hair at 3 a.m. during an identity crisis isn't a skill, Pip."
"It is," Pippa said, holding the dress against herself and twirling once, soft fabric blooming around her. "And lucky for me, you're the only fang I trust not to make me look like I escaped from a Victorian morgue."
Thorn raised a brow. "Your faith is disturbing."
"And yet," Pippa beamed, "here I am. Handing you my future."
Thorn shook her head, unable to stop the laugh that slipped out. It wasn't loud. It wasn't bright.
But it was real. The kind she only ever let Pippa coax out of her.
"Handing me your future," Thorn echoed flatly. "Dramatic much?"
"Please," Pippa said, carefully draping the dress back onto its hanger. "You literally walk around with a cloak and a death glare. I'm a saint compared to you."
Thorn opened her mouth. Probably to argue, probably to deny, but the kettle on their desk clicked loudly as it finished boiling, slicing clean through the moment.
Pippa perked up. "Tea?"
Thorn shrugged, but the answer was already yes.
It always was.
Pippa moved toward their tiny, illegal setup and dragged the drawer open. She grabbed the tea bags and a small stack of mismatched mugs. Thorn watched her carefully. She watched the way Pippa hummed under her breath when she was trying not to think too hard about something.
For the first time since Danny collapsed in front of them in the quad, the dorm didn't feel haunted.
It felt… lived in.
"Earl Grey?" Pippa called over her shoulder.
Thorn smirked. "Obviously."
The rain drummed softly against the window, steady and rhythmic. A comfort instead of a warning. For once.
Pippa handed Thorn her mug and climbed onto her own bed, cross-legged, her hair now an unraveled halo around her shoulders. Thorn sat back against her pillows, bringing her knees up, letting the warmth of the tea seep into her palms.
"Tomorrow," Pippa said between sips, "we do masks. And hair. And makeup."
Thorn grimaced, the rim of her mug pressed gently against her lips. "God help us."
"And then," Pippa said pointedly, "we survive the Masquerade."
Thorn stared at the rising steam, letting it fog the edges of her vision. "We will."
"You sure?"
"No," Thorn admitted as she took a long sip from her mug. "But we'll try."
And somehow, that was enough.
Pippa yawned, stretching her arms overhead. "Alright, I'm calling it. I need sleep before I emotionally combust."
Thorn snorted. "You combust on a weekly basis."
"It's part of my charm."
Thorn didn't disagree.
Pippa flicked off her lamp, plunging half the room into warm shadow.
Thorn's candle stayed lit a moment longer, the subtle scent of sandalwood bent low in a draft, as if it were listening.
"Goodnight, Thorn," Pippa murmured, already curling onto her side.
Thorn breathed out slowly, letting her body relax into the mattress. "Night, Pip."
For the first time in a long time, Thorn didn't fall asleep afraid.
She fell asleep preparing.
Because tomorrow would bring the dress.
And the day after, the dance.
And the danger humming just beneath the school floors.
But tonight?
Tonight was quiet.
And Reichenbach, for now, let them rest.