If Rose’s hair hadn’t been tied back, it would be gone. Even so, the ends of her eyebrows were letting off an unpleasant burning smell. The letter in her hands had completely conflagrated, and she dropped the smoldering remnants with a hiss and reddened fingers. The sword, too, she dropped.

  “Fire. He shot fire. That was fire,” she stammered, shaking her fingers furiously to stave off the sting.

  The attic was cool and empty in the wake of the altercation, and the man was staring at her with the air of someone who had been inconvenienced. However, as the seconds ticked by, the hostile staff wasn’t returning—but neither were Gearson and Didymus.

  An ember glow in one of the many rings on the stranger’s gloved knuckle faded as he propped himself on a cane that, despite his cropped, peppered hair, he obviously didn’t need. Dark brows knitted, the stranger’s face was knitted together in what looked like a permanent, heavy-set scowl. His equally short, cropped beard was well-kept, and well-groomed to hide the creases around his mouth, although faint crows feet around his eyes showed that he did, in fact, sometimes have expressions. His nose, narrow, and slightly long, was the only well-defined feature, although it made his already gaunt face seem even more so in the shadows.

  What she had mistaken for an overcoat, was in fact a more tailored robe like her own, although far more intricate golden embroidery decorated his hems. The man shifted just then, pulling his robe back to place a hand on the waist of his finely made suit-vest as he surveyed her.

  “You. Are you a student here? Oh, of course you are—look at the robes. First year, then, and either very lost or suicidal…Hm, bit early in the term for suicidal…” he leaned over her, cocking his head as he seemed to notice her injuries for the first time. “The black eye is a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”

  He spoke so fast, she couldn’t get a word in edgewise, much less ask where she was, or what was going on.

  “Now, I imagine I’ll only have to ask this once, hm?” the man rambled, just as quickly. “What is your name and dormitory?”

  The warning from the letter flashed in her mind, but she was alone. If she couldn’t give her true name, then what did she give? There was no Gearson to advise her, or Didymus to run interference. As for what had happened to them, she refused to think about that yet. She changed her name just a little, cursing herself for not thinking more quickly on the spot.

  “Ah—I—My name is Rose LeCible, and I don’t have a dor—”

  He gave a sharp rap of his cane on the floor.

  “Ah, say no more. First year disorientation. With a name like that…You’ll no doubt be with the rest of the flowers. White Court for certain…” Then, the man heaved a put-upon sigh. “Very well. If you would please present me with your letter?”

  “Letter?” she asked, overwhelmed.

  “Yes, yes. Your acceptance letter. The one with all of your paperwork. Tuition information. Records. Your seal of approval to be studying at the Drakespire Academy of Magic and Sorcery. The one the mirror will have undoubtedly placed in your robes when it selected you from your realm and brought you through.”

  So that’s what Gearson had been talking about…

  The man held out his hand impatiently.

  “I’m sorry sir, but you burned my letter just now,” she said, somewhat honestly.

  His hand froze, inches in front of her, and he lowered it with a small ‘tut.’

  “Ah…” he mused. “Yes, I suppose I did. No matter! We don’t have a records office for nothing, and time already passes us by! At this rate you’ll miss orientation, and I would so pity the soul who crosses Prefect Valrose so early in acquaintance. Come along! Let’s get you home!”

  Then, before Rose could so much as protest, the man had her by the shoulder in a surprisingly strong grip, and was steering her down the stairs, through a disorienting series of dust and cobwebs, and then through the rickety front door and into the chilled night air.

  The yard alone was proof that she was no longer in the same place. Unlike the well-loved Dross home, this manor’s facade was unkempt and rotting, and the whole building sat on a heavy tilt, as though the entire structure was sinking slowly into the water-logged ground. Its bushes—wild cherry, magnolia, and lilac bushes so overgrown they might as well have been trees—had all gone so long without a pruning that it felt as though to escape they needed to blaze a path through some wicked, fairytale forest. The stranger steered her right through them, along a broken, aged path that she could hardly see in the dark, until at last, he pushed her through a rusted wrought iron gate, and out into a different world.

  Rose blinked in the bright light of a brick-paved city street lined with crackling lanterns on iron posts. It spiraled downward toward enormous, looming buildings, and in the farthest distance, a stone cathedral, its hundreds of circular windows glinting merrily up at them like watchful eyes.

  “Quickly, if you please. Believe it or not, I did have things to do before coming across you,” he urged, walking at a pace that forced her to run to keep up. “So what classes are you most excited for?” he asked conversationally.

  “I don’t—” Rose puffed, short of breath with the effort to keep pace as he rushed them down the street, already passing the first of the turnoffs that led to a building gate-marked Kasmire Dormitory, that better resembled an opera house than a residence.

  “Potions are my own preference of course,” he rambled before she could get another word in. “You will find that everyone has their own certain little advantages in each class. Potions, however! Potions don’t discriminate against anything but focus and merit. Finest class in the school if you ask me.”

  She wanted to ask where everyone was. Surely a city like this would have people. She settled, however, on the most important question.

  “What happened to the ghosts back there? Are they…gone?”

  The man huffed a strange, snorting sort of laugh, and straightened the hat on his head to better balance his beaky nose. “Of course not! They’re ghosts! Were they so easy to get rid of, I’d have wiped away that acursed building years ago!”

  She could have cried in relief.

  “So they’re all still there?”

  He misinterpreted the shake in her voice.

  “It will be a day or two before they are able to materialize again, of course. I do hope you’ve learned your lesson. Everyone but you is undergoing orientation. How you got so far from your dormitory on Sorting Night, I’ll never know. Ah, here we are.”

  Rose didn’t see the turnoff from the road until they were right on it, and the man wheeled her about to face another wrought-iron gate, at least twice as large as the sinking manor house they’d just left, and set before a garden large enough to cover a city block. The oak trees and stone wall that lined the brick street had blocked most of the view, but now that they were looking in, Rose had a full view of the gardens, and the small white castle that it surrounded.

  The strange man snapped his fingers with a sharp click! and the gate swung inward.

  The brickwork beneath their feet tapered quickly into crystal-clear glass paving blocks that glowed softly through the garden in dramatic, swooping paths. Crystal fountains poured around them, their silvery liquid oddly silent. Every few moments, a lightly-glowing winged thing would dart down for a drink of whatever was in them, and then disappear.

  Rose wrinkled her nose as they walked. Around each of the fountains, white lilies, magnolia, and even white orchids bloomed, but the most common flower by far were the hundreds of white rose bushes, spilling their heady scent into the air.

  By far the most impressive sight, however, was the small castle they led to. Six turrets gleamed under the moonlight, constructed of the same pale, almost translucent stone as the path. The walls seemed to shimmer, as if perpetually coated in frost. Its spires, topped with white, writhing ribbon flags, speared the sky like ivory daggers, each precipice decorated with sculptures that looked from the ground like unfurling lilies or frozen flames. Ivy with glossy, silvery leaves climbed the lower levels tastefully, like the garden, every leaf was pruned and scrubbed with precision.

  Twelve-foot lion statues flanked the great white doors, their alabaster forms more regal than grotesque. The strange man marched her right up to them, and as she stepped across the vestibule, their stony heads turned down to watch them.

  She jumped cleanly out of the man’s guiding grip.

  “The statues,” she gasped. “They move!”

  The man only sighed. “Well of course they move. How else could they do their job?”

  “Which is?” she hissed tensely, not taking her eyes off of them, the same way they were now watching her.

  “Why, eating disobedient students, of course.”

  She blanched, earning her a hearty laugh from the man.

  “My-my, how long were you in that mansion? Surprised by a couple of guardians? I suppose I’ll have to warn Vanrose that you’ve had a bit of a run-in with the ghosts. Memory loss is quite common. Now about your face. Let’s fix that, shall we—or, no… no, I don’t think I will. Consider yourself free from detention, my lucky young first year! I simply do not have time for the paperwork tonight, and this… well, in the white court, I believe an entrance like this will be more than sufficient punishment.”

  Then, without further explanation, he snapped his fingers again. That same sharp click! and the doors to the white castle swung open.

  Before they could get a step past the threshold, a crystal vase flew at Rose's head. She only just ducked in time. It shattered behind her on the clear glass pavement with an angry tinkle.

  “AHAHAHA!” a boy not much older than her, in similar clothing, hunting boots, and a yellow fringe of mussed hair was laughing, but it was clear it hadn’t been him who had thrown the projectile.

  “NNNGH!” An absurdly tall redheaded boy, wearing the same clothing as she—sans vest and outer robe, rounded on the yellow-haired boy. Ruddy-faced, and clearly beyond his threshold of self control, he let out a rumbling bellow that rattled the crystals hanging on the chandeliers above.

  “Oh dear,” muttered the stranger next to her, but he didn’t do anything to stop the redhead when he ran at the yellow haired boy.

  Yellow was… clearly a fan of taunting. He stood his ground, even offering the second boy a little bow just before his fingers almost reached him, and the first boy stepped neatly aside, sending red crashing into an end-table beneath one of the spiraling staircases in the entry foyer. Another pair of vases shattered.

  The fight had amassed a crowd, all cheering and yelling, but Rose couldn’t take her eyes off of yellow as red turned back around, brushing blood from his nose, shaking his head like an animal—no, like a horse.

  A great ripping sound filled the room as the red-haired boy’s pants shredded off of him, and a fuzzy pelt coated his front and back legs. His human feet turned to hooves before her eyes, and his polished black shoes fell comically to the side as he charged again. Now, even taller, his hard hooves scraped at the smooth floor, slippery, but heavy enough for much more speed than before—and a lot more impact.

  It shouldn’t have worked a second time, but it did. Yellow waited patiently, almost gallantly, for the centaur to get close, but this time, when he sidestepped, his hand darted out and grabbed a fistful of red’s jacket, nearly knocking him over as he swung onto its back. Furious, the centaur reared and tried to stop, skidding badly on the slick floor, and sending them both tumbling to the ground. Yellow had an arm around red’s neck before they even hit the ground, laughing merrily.

  Rolling his eyes, Rose’s escort clamped a hand back over her shoulder, steering them into the entry, and to the side of the watching crowd, where another pair of boys, their robes hemmed with one more ring of gold than all the rest, stood muttering furiously.

  “This isn’t the way duels are fought! And the first years! Is this the first challenge you want them to see? He’s too reckless!” The first of the boys, with unmemorable features, stick-straight black hair, and an odd cap atop his head was arguing. Badly.

  “There’s no rule against abandoning magic and going for a headlock, Valentin. How he even got it on someone that tall is impressive to me.” The second young man, lean, calm, with the sort of face that storybooks write about, platinum hair, and expensive-looking trim on everything he wore, stood watching the red-haired centaur’s face go even redder under yellow’s grip.

  Valentin huffed, trying vainly to imitate the stoic posture of his classmate.

  “There wasn’t any rule against anything before society crawled out of the mud and made rules. Just because Rook’s clever enough to obfuscate them, doesn’t make him moral… or tasteful.”

  “My word, man. Did you just say he’s clever?” Blond asked with the ghost of a smile.

  “Same as a weasel stealing food,” Valentin said poisonously.

  “Then one of you will eat. You know the rules—and you know how to go about adding them, if you really care to.”

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Valentin went a little red, and turned back to the fight. “That’s not what I meant! Rook is simply—gone. Now, he’s gone. Of COURSE he’s gone!”

  Rose glanced back. The centaur, it seemed, had finally yielded. Rather than stick around to gloat over his victory, however, yellow had already vanished. The centaur collected his shoes and what remained of his shredded pants, and clopped up the stairs, presumably to find a backup before he transformed back—Rose hoped.

  “So, all the tidying up is left to the rest of the court—again—because he can’t be bothered with—”

  “Ahem. If you are not too busy, Prefect Valrose?” Rose’s escort cleared his throat.

  The blond faced them with quick, regal grace, and made a gesture of welcome.

  “Headmage Cromwell,” he greeted, in that same, silky calm. “You’ve come just in time to witness a challenge for one of our upper positions. How can I help you?”

  Headmage…headmage? He hadn’t mentioned a thing about being headmage. She’d been walking next to a mage all this time?

  Headmage Cromwell, her escort of the last few minutes, either ignored her shock, or did not care.

  “I found one of your students in the sunken manor half-dead, and in the process of being attacked by the ghost staff.” He held up a hand before Prefect Valrose could begin the stream of questions that his dropped shoulders and open mouth indicated he had. “No, the ghosts are not at large. Still perfectly content to stay contained, but I do expect you to keep a closer eye on your initiates in future. How he even got in there, I’ve no idea. The wards alone would have sent an upperclassmen flying back down the hill, let alone a first-year—”

  “Headmage,” Valrose, the blond student, interjected quickly. “Faces are crucial to Glassenveil Dormitory. I know every one that stepped through our mirror tonight. This student certainly isn’t a member of my—.”

  “Nevertheless, I have other matters to deal with. His robes are hemmed with white, and his name certainly fits,” the headmage interjected, far more firmly. “He is yours.”

  The command in his tone was obvious, and though the prefect did not look pleased, he hid his displeasure with grace. The prefect circled a finger in the air to indicate her face, “...I suppose these cosmetics were applied recently. What did you say his name was?”

  “Mister Rose LeCible,” the Headmage introduced with perfect clarity.

  Rose waved from her quiet position next to the headmage, too aware that this conversation was beginning to draw stares now that the fight was over. From the disgusted look on the Valentin’s face, she knew immediately that waving was the wrong thing to do.

  “Now then, it seems as though you have things well in hand….” the headmage dismissed.

  Then, with a snap of his fingers, the headmage was simply gone. If there hadn’t been stares before, now nearly every person in the room—at least seventy other students all in robes like hers, were staring with various degrees of trying to hid their interest. Some tucked themselvess behind textbooks, suspicious in intself on the first night of school. Others, pulled out little popping games played with stones and puffy clouds of air that floated over the ground. Others ate candy where they obviously didn’t think the prefect, or Valentin could see. All of them, without exception, however, glanced her way as often as opportunity would permit.

  “Ahem,” Valentin cleared his throat roughly, tossing his black hair behind his ear almost hard enough to throw the little ceremonial cap from his head. “It is impolite to look away when the Prefect of the house so obviously has instruction for you.”

  Rose stood a little straighter, a bruise from the Dross manor stairs twinging at her side as she did so.

  “Sorry,” she stammered. “You have my attention.”

  “Now now, Valentin. After missing orientation, it is natural to be disoriented,” Valrose intoned smoothly. “As it’s nearly time for bed, I’ll be quick, hm? My name is Prefect Valrose, Housewarden of Glassenveil Dormitory. You may turn to me with any questions regarding etiquette, academy functions, or academy-related need. Here in Glassenveil Dormitory, we stand for beautify and precision in all things—and I do mean all things.”

  “Understood,” Rose said quickly, realizing he’d paused to allow some sort of response.

  Satisfied, he continued. “There is a standing invitation to duel me if you dislike a rule. If you disagree with me, I expect rather than complaints, that you will step up and create something better. Valentin here is my bishop. Edric, who is currently assisting the third years, is my knight. You had the privilege of witnessing a challenge for Rook’s position when you entered. Each dormitory has two prefects—a housewarden and vice-housewarden. Rook Lovak is the other prefect to whom you may direct your questions.”

  There, Valentin let out a barely disguised cough.

  “As for you…I expect pranks from freshmen, but entering the sunken manor alone? Try anything that…eccentric again, and you will be evicted from this house. What the academy does with you after that will no longer be my business. Understood?”

  She nodded mutely, unwilling to speak. Once Gearson and Didymus had rematerialized, she didn’t have much choice but to try to go back.

  “Why were you there?” Valentin asked from behind Valrose’s shoulder.

  There was something about the sneer in his voice that made Rose cringe.

  She swallowed hard, trying her best to sound believable. “If I could tell you, I would, but I don’t actually remember parts of that fight. I remember entering the mirror. I remember coming here. There were these creatures with long fingers and claws, laughing. But… I doubt I could even tell you everything that was in my records. Memory problems after the ghosts…”

  Buy it, she pleaded silently. Come on, buy it. Just until I can find Gearson and ask him what to do!

  “Creatures with long fingers and claws? You don’t really expect us to believe the old ‘kidnapped by goblins’ excuse.”

  “The what?” she asked blankly.

  To her relief, the prefect dismissed her with a wave, brushing an errant blond hair back into its perfect place.

  “Give it a few days. Your memory will come back, and you WILL tell me what happened,” he said flatly. “For now…It’s so common an excuse—not that would surprise me. The chances are… higher than average, but not that high.”

  “And now we are saddled with another unpolished, unmannered—” Valentin started to say.

  “Manners,” Valrose repeated cooly, though he didn’t look as if he disagreed. “This unruly pawn may never attract the interest, much less regard of anyone of station, but that doesn’t mean that Glassenveil has lost all sense of hospitality. Valentin, why don’t you show our new racoon to his bunk—”

  Valentin opened his mouth, an insult already forming on his lips, when another student, at least three inches taller than Valentin, with ordinary brown hair, and tousled robes bowled right into him.

  “So sorry, man! So—”

  “You! Tuck in those robes! Don’t you know where you are?” Valentin snapped before he could even get out an apology.

  The prefect, elegantly rolling his eyes, was already striding away.

  Valentin saw a chance for delegation, and he took it. “And take this miscreant to a first year bunk!”

  Any other time, Rose might have snapped right back at Valentin, but the thought of having to endure a tour of the castle up to any alleged bunk seemed even less fun than ‘prancing’ drills with Didymus.

  “Yessir!” The boy bobbed obediently, already scooping up her arm, and pulling her toward one of the white-carpeted staircases in the front foyer. Leading her along, he tucked his messy robes back into place before they could get halfway up. “Valrose seems fair, if a bit pompous and way too high-falutin’ for me, but Valentin—I heard him scold a second-year for twenty minutes. It’s like he was trying to use every word in the dictionary,” he said conversationally, the moment they were far enough out of earshot.

  “He’s definitely got a certain charm,” she agreed.

  “That’s one way to put it.

  “You did that on purpose,” she realized aloud. “You—that was risky.”

  “Betting on whether something can annoy him is like betting whether you’ll find turtles in a turtle pond, and I’ve known the guy for an hour.”

  She smiled. “Long hour?”

  “If you lied to me straight enough, I’d believe you if you said it’d been a week. I’m Rob, by the way, Rob Henhill.”

  He reached over awkwardly to shake her hand.

  “Rose. LeCible,” she said, ducking instinctively away from the curious stares as they walked. “—And thank you.”

  “Is it true you got in a fight with a whole staff of ghosts? On your first night? I’m from a pretty rural town, but we don’t have any there,” he jabbered enthusiastically, apparently unable to contain himself anymore.

  She almost laughed, and was reminded of the bruises on her ribs. “I’ve seen too many,” she said, letting him lead them up another set of stairs, these ones windier than the others.

  “What are they like?” he asked, leaning over her with an expression of utter fascination.

  “Um, good with garden tools? The one with the pitchfork did this—” she pointed to a bruise on her cheek that would definitely be a bump tomorrow. There was no need to mention that the black eye had been from getting dragged up the stairs… stairs that had looked a lot like these.

  “A pitchfork?” he prompted.

  “I don’t think they wanted me in there.”

  “How did you get in there in the first place?”

  “I really wish I could tell you. I remember a mirror and a fight. And… not much else. What did I miss here? There are centaurs in this dormitory?”

  The corridors they passed were straightforward enough, each one carpeted with fluffy white trail rugs that squished beneath their shoes like a cloud. There were chandeliers everywhere, twinkling and sparkling away, but what struck Rose the most was how perfectly, manically clean everything was. She’d seen the inside of bleach bottles less white than this. It was unnerving.

  Rob looked at her in surprise. “I guess I’m not the only one who needs to know stuff, then. Turns out a bunch of the students are halves. Centaurs. Lamia. Mermen—”

  “Mermen?” she gasped. “Mermen are actually—here?”

  “Mermen,” he nodded. “But I really wouldn’t mess with them. There’s more than one reason they’re kept in their own dorm. So about those ghosts. How did you fight ‘em off?”

  Panting around her words as they climbed higher, she told Rob about the skirmish, leaving out Didymus and Gearson. Just as she thought her lungs were going to burn out of her chest, they reached the top of the staircase where a simple arched wooden door led into the bunk room.

  The room was vast and rectangular, with a high, arched ceiling crafted from translucent crystal. A line of ten or so bunks lined each side of the white room. Over each bed draped snow-white curtains that looked as though they would tear if someone even looked at them too long, and at the foot of each, a single white trunk served as the only storage in the room.

  “Home sweet home!” Rob reported with little enthusiasm. He rubbed at the freckles on his nose, and brushed back his curly brown hair with an awkward sweep. “I think there’s one left in the back.”

  “It’s so…sterile,” she said without any real feeling. “But hey, it’s a bed.”

  “Yes, thank you!” he exclaimed, throwing up his hands. “We have hospitals back home less scrubbed up than this.”

  “First night, and complaining already?” puffed a voice behind them.

  “Tough walk?” Rose clipped back.

  The newcomer was still another blond, although far less posh and polished than Valrose. His robes were disheveled from the climb. He placed a hand over his portly belly, panting heavily.

  “Exercise is good for the skin,” he panted back.

  “Silver lining,” Rose sighed. “Sorry, I’ll wait to ask you questions til you’ve got your breath. I’m Rose LeCible.”

  “LeCible,” the boy stated, a little heavily. “Not a name I’ve heard of. I am Tristan Alloy.”

  “Not a name I’ve heard of either,” she said blankly.

  Next to her, Rob stifled a snort.

  “Then you truly must be from the backwater,” Tristan sneered.

  Rose laughed agreeably. “Backwater is the perfect description. Swamps galore, with all of their delicacies.”

  “Figures someone with a face like that would be proud of that,” Tristan snarked, jutting his chin at her face, covered in bruises, and the scar.

  “Don’t knock the backwater til you’ve been,” Rob piped up. “Assuming you own a decent pair of boots.”

  “The number of boots I own could pay the mortgage on your house, Henhill,” said Tristan.

  “Excellent,” said Rose emphatically. “Hear that, Rob? Let’s get out of here. We can all retire on boot money.”

  A few more students reached the top of the stairs just then, snickering until they caught Tristan’s stony gaze. Quickly they all dispersed to their bunks.

  “Oh, you two can certainly feel free to ‘get out of here,’ as you so elegantly put things,” Tristan huffed. “Now get out of my way. You’re blocking my bed. You only wish you had one with such perfect positioning…”

  Tristan then proceeded to lie down on, and draw the sheer curtains over the four-poster bed closest to the door.

  “Come on,” Rob said. “The bunk at the end is still open.”

  “I’d prefer that one anyway,” Rose said, a little too loudly. “Can you imagine getting woken up every time someone goes in and out?”

  “In a room with twenty people…” Rob exclaimed with her, in mock horror.

  Tristan sat up, glaring after them through the curtains as they strode away.

  “Here we are,” Rob said, pointing to the bed closest to a large chilly window at the end of the room. “And here’s… hang on. Where are your things?”

  It was true, that her bunk was the only one with no trunk at the foot of the bed.

  “When I got dragged through the mirror,” she said quietly, “I sort of didn’t have time to pack.”

  It wasn’t untrue, and she had a feeling that if anyone here, she could trust Rob. She fixed him with a smile—a little lopsided from the swelling.

  Rob, however, looked as though he didn’t believe her in the slightest. “You sure your things didn’t just go somewhere else? It’s not like—but then he saw it. The paper on her pillowcase.

  Rose LeCible, it read, followed with a day schedule for classes the following day. It was signed by headmage, and marked with a wax seal at the bottom.

  “Usually the schedules are in your acceptance packet…” he mused. “But if it's here, you’re in the right place.”

  “I’ll make do until I can send for things,” she promised, not knowing whether or not this was a Very Big Lie. If Didymus and Gearson could visit the corner store for apple juice, then surely they could find a way to get her a toothbrush—or get her home to her own toothbrush. They might not be able to do it, but they’d at least know how to get her back…right?

  She sighed, and sat down on the mattress.

  “Ah, the latest in marble slab technology, I see,” she said, patting the thin bedcovers. “They spared no expense.”

  Rob smirked a little at that, but he was still staring at her, obviously worried.

  “Listen, LeCible. I’ve got some extra things you could use until…. Well, they’re from the backwater, but—” he scratched behind his head awkwardly.

  “Just Rose,” she interrupted gently.

  “Right,” he said, narrowing his eyes. It was like he could see her attempts to dodge the question. “Just Robs, then. So. You need, like, a change of clothes? Got toothpaste? My ma packed me like she thought I was never going to see a clothing store again in my life. You’d really actually be doing me a favor if you’d lighten the trunk a bit.”

  “I—” Rose hesitated.

  “Look, I get if you don’t wanna wear Henhill stuff, but—”

  “That’s not it at all,” she said vehemently. “I just hate the thought of putting someone out because I’m unprepared. I’m—I’m always prepared. I’m kinda also half your height…”

  Rob rolled his eyes. “If that’s what you’re worried about, then don’t think I’m just gonna give you stuff for free. You’re gonna owe me favors like a cat owes naps. We’re talkin’ book-carrying. We’re talkin’ note-sharing. You feel me?”

  She could have laughed, but after a night like this, it was slow in coming. But, she’d have had to be blind not to see what Rob was trying to do for her. It was an easy decision.

  She stood from the bed, and tipped him a dramatic bow. “At your service, my toothbrush overlord.”

  “Favor number one,” he said, crossing his arms tightly. “Never call me that again.”