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But as much as Fia would have rather sat next to anyone else, she didn’t complain to Grace about her placement. Her friend had worked so hard to make the occasion special for Montrose, and Fia wouldn’t ruin it for her before it even began. She simply hugged Grace and wished Montrose “Happy birthday,” feeling bad enough as it was that she’d have to steal her friend away later and catch her up on everything.

Grace fussed everyone into place when they arrived, sitting to one side of Montrose at the head of the table, his parents on his other side, her parents beside her, and a scattering of friends Fia didn’t know well filling out the rest of the seats. Somehow, Andromeda had landed right in their center, immediately drawing the attention of the two boys who flanked her. And the one across from her as well, who kept leaning to the side to better see her around the tiered cake.

“Looks like the ol’ Heartcrusher is already at work,” Penbrook said, more to himself than to Fia, it seemed, well aware she didn’t want to speak with him.

But they’d be here for a few hours more at least, and sitting at the very end of the table as she was, she couldn’t avoid him completely without making a scene. She accepted the trays he passed her and allowed him to pour her a steaming mug of cider—though the tension between them practically crackled as she offered a crisp thank-you and a sharp smile.

He seemed to take those interactions as an invitation, and as Grace and Montrose laughed at the other end of the table, sharing a story about an old desk they’d found with a ribbon-tied stack of love letters tucked inside, Penbrook looked at her almost desperately.

“Your feelings deserve to be felt. I’m not trying to change them.” Angling toward her, he lowered his voice, like it was only the two of them there. “I only want to explain, and you can do with my words what you will.”

Fia took a too-big bite of her sandwich, and since she was unable to object over the mouthful, Penbrook pressed on, so intent on getting his words out that he dipped his elbow in a splash of spilled soup without noticing.

“It all began with the curse and my desire to break it.” He exposed the ring on his finger before once again illusioning it away. “I already told you I visited with curse workers, but I sought out a diviner too.”

Fia glanced up, unintentionally putting her curiosity on display. Divining magic was just so extraordinary—the threads of time parting like gauzy drapes—and particularly difficult to master. “Oh?”

Penbrook relaxed a fraction, knowing he’d hooked her. “The diviner foresaw a rare spellbook made of skin and bones as the only thing that might save me.”

“The Book of Ribs,” Fia muttered, adjusting the fuzzy blanket across her lap.

Penbrook touched the pocket of his coat where he kept the grimoire. “The diviner never mentioned the name of the book and only directed me to Thistledown. So, I traveled all the way here to Trivoris, introduced myself to the head librarian, and requested a tour of the archives. All to be turned away.”

“Really? But you’re a Madbury.” Fia had imagined his name would open any door.

“Ridiculous, isn’t it?” he scoffed.

But she couldn’t help smiling to herself, thinking of a librarian refusing him.

“I went back that night,” he continued.

“The same evening I went,” Fia said, not for the first time wondering about the coincidence.

“Yes.” Penbrook looked at her carefully, questions floating in the depths of his eyes.

“So what made you steal The Book of Ribs instead of any of the others?” Fia whispered, although the boys sitting across the table from them were deep in their own conversation.

“Borrow,” Penbrook said pointedly. “Anyway, I felt drawn to it above any other.”

Fia remembered spotting The Book of Ribs that night too, how it had been there hiding on the closest shelf and had looked the most interesting. “It’s a strange coincidence we both reached for the same book.”

“I don’t think it was a coincidence.” Penbrook gave Fia a piercing look. “And I don’t think it was The Book of Ribs I was meant to find. Or what I was drawn to. I think… it was you.”

“What? Me?”

“Oh, Fia, yes, please take a turn!” Grace said brightly.

Fia’s head swung toward her friend, who had her drink raised along with the rest of the table. Hastily, Fia scooped up her own mug, as did Penbrook, extending their arms. Everyone was watching her. Waiting. Because apparently she’d volunteered herself to make a toast to Montrose.

“To your health and happiness, Montrose! To your good and honest heart.” She hadn’t meant it as a slight to Penbrook because of his lies, but she felt him deflate beside her as everyone else recited, “Montrose! To your good and honest heart!”

His friends recounted funny stories when they took their turns. His mother talked for a very long time, to Montrose’s embarrassed delight and Grace’s annoyance, though Grace spoke nearly as much as Mrs. Shen, ending her heartfelt toast with, “Another year closer to being old and gray and dusty, when I’ll love you best.” And then someone was cutting the cake, and Grace was giving Montrose his gift, and everyone was breaking away from the table, mingling so they might chat with acquaintances they hadn’t been seated beside.

Fia slipped around the table, catching Grace before anyone else could steal her attention.

“Everyone’s having fun, aren’t they?” Grace asked, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. “You’re having fun?”

“The party is perfect.”