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Briar Rosewood had never been good at wanting things loudly.
Aria could want things loudly.
Aria could want anything loudly. Aria wanted snacks like declarations of war. She wanted attention like she’d been born under a theatre spotlight and personally offended it by walking away. She wanted a fight with Sirius Black at least once a week and sometimes twice if the weather was bad. She wanted new hair dye, stolen cigarettes, better eyeliner, a nap in the sun, revenge, biscuits, a decent bass line, a late-night wander, chaos, and a bag of crisps in that order and all before breakfast.
Briar wanted things quietly.
She wanted them in the soft, private, shame-warm place behind her ribs, where they could sit neatly and not inconvenience anyone. She wanted new books but waited until hers had split spines and loose pages. She wanted compliments but pretended she hated fuss. She wanted to say no more often, and yes more often, and stop getting stuck between the two like a moth in a lampshade.
And, apparently, Briar wanted to go to one of Aria Parkinson’s parties.
Not just hear about one.
Not just laugh while Aria came back at three in the morning with glitter in her eyelashes, one shoe missing, and an entirely unexplained goblin-made fork tucked into her sock.
She wanted to see.
This, Aria decided, was terrible.
“No,” Aria said.
Briar blinked at her over the top of her book. “I haven’t even finished asking.”
“You didn’t need to. I felt the question coming. The air went pathetic.”
“That’s rude.”
“That’s protective. Different perfume, same bottle.” Aria lay upside down across Briar’s bed, her long blonde hair spilling over the edge, the dyed tips brushing the floorboards in little strips of faded pink and violent green. She had one boot on and one boot off, because she’d claimed the other boot was “emotionally unavailable”. “Absolutely not.”
Briar tucked a curl behind her ear. “I just want to know what it’s like.”
“It’s loud.”
“I know.”
“It’s sweaty.”
“I guessed.”
“It smells like someone hexed a bottle of perfume and then fought a brewery in a cupboard.”
Briar’s mouth twitched. “That’s oddly specific.”
“It’s accurate.”
“I still want to go.”
“No, you don’t. You think you want to go. That’s different. That’s like when people think they want to try firewhisky because it sounds rustic and romantic and then they drink it and immediately see their ancestors.”
Briar lowered the book into her lap. Her glasses had slid slightly down her nose. She pushed them up with one finger and gave Aria the earnest, slightly nervous look that always made Aria groan like someone had stabbed her in the soul.
“Please?”
“No.”
“Aria.”
“No.”
“Just once.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I’d stay with you the whole time.”
“That’s what they all say before the bass starts and suddenly everyone’s got the survival instincts of a spoon.”
“I won’t drink anything.”
“Liar.”
“I probably won’t drink anything.”
“Worse.”
“I’ll only drink something if I know what it is.”
Aria rolled over so quickly she nearly fell off the bed. “Briar.”
“What?”
“You once drank half a cup of soil water because Pandora told you it was herbal tea.”
“I was distracted.”
“You said it tasted earthy.”
“It did.”
“It was mud.”
“It was very earthy.”
Aria pointed at her. “This is precisely why you aren’t coming.”
Briar’s face fell.
Not dramatically. Not in a way designed to manipulate. Briar didn’t know how to make a face fall for effect. It simply slipped, like a curtain dropping over a lit window. Her shoulders curved in. Her fingers tightened around the edge of her book. Her mouth pressed into a small, disappointed line.
Aria hated it immediately.
“Oh, don’t do that,” Aria complained.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re doing the sad cottage orphan thing.”
“I’m just sitting here.”
“Tragically.”
Briar looked down at her lap. “It’s fine.”
“It is not fine. You’ve gone all small.”
“I haven’t.”
“You have. You’ve shrunk. You’re about three inches tall now. Absolutely devastating.”
Briar huffed, but it came out soft. “I just… you go all the time. You always come back with stories. And I know I’m not really that sort of person, but I don’t want to always be the person who never does anything because I’m scared or because I think I’ll ruin it or because I don’t know what to do with myself.”
Aria went still.
Briar swallowed. Her fingers worried at the corner of a page. “I don’t want to go alone. Obviously. I’m not mad. But I want to see what it’s like. Just once. With you.”
The room went quiet.
Aria stared at her.
Then she sat up with a sigh so large and theatrical it deserved curtains.
“You’re a nightmare.”
Briar’s eyes flicked up. “Is that a yes?”
“No, it’s a legally binding accusation.”
“Aria.”
“It’s a maybe.”
Briar brightened.
Aria pointed at her again, sharper this time. “Don’t get sparkly at me. There are rules.”
“Rules?”
“Yes. Rules. My rules. The ancient and sacred rules of taking Briar Rosewood anywhere past bedtime.”
Briar closed her book properly now. “Okay.”
“One, you stay with me.”
“I already said I would.”
“Two, you do not drink anything unless I give it to you.”
“Okay.”
“Three, if I say we’re leaving, we leave.”
“Okay.”
“Four, if you get overwhelmed, you tell me.”
“I will.”
“Five, no being polite to weird people.”
Briar frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means if someone gives you something, you’re allowed to say no. If someone talks to you and you don’t like it, you’re allowed to walk away. If someone makes you uncomfortable, you’re allowed to come find me and I’ll ruin their evening.”
“That sounds excessive.”
“That’s because you’re picturing a normal person’s version of ruin. Mine has artistic integrity.”
Briar smiled, nervous and hopeful and a little bit glowing.
Aria stared at her for another second, then flopped backwards onto the bed and covered her face with both hands.
“I’m going to regret this.”
“No, you won’t.”
“I’m going to regret this so hard my bones are going to complain.”
“You always say your bones complain anyway.”
“They do. They’re dramatic.”
Briar leaned forward, delighted. “So I can come?”
Aria parted two fingers to glare through them.
“One party,” she said. “One hidden dungeon rave. One taste of my beautiful, rotten, beloved little underworld. Then you go back to drinking tea and whispering apologies to plants.”
Briar’s smile went soft and huge.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Aria muttered. “You haven’t seen the toilets.”
That should have warned Briar.
Several things should have warned Briar, actually.
The fact that Aria changed outfits three times and ended up in something that looked less like clothing and more like a threat. The fact that she packed her bag like someone preparing for a war, stuffing it with wipes, pain potions, a small bottle of water, headache draughts, hair ties, mints, a soft scarf, crackers, a tiny tin of balm, and something wrapped carefully in brown paper that Briar wasn’t allowed to inspect.
The fact that when Briar came down in her own clothes — a brown skirt, a soft blouse, her old cardigan, tights, boots, and her hair clipped half back from her face — Aria took one look at her and said, “Oh, sweetheart, you look like a librarian who wandered into a kidnapping.”
Briar looked down at herself. “Is that bad?”
“No. It’s adorable. It’s also going to make people want to corrupt you on sight.”
Briar flushed. “Aria.”
“What? You look edible in a very gentle way.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“It wasn’t meant to be helpful. It was meant to be true.” Aria stepped closer and tugged one of Briar’s curls loose beside her cheek. “There. Better.”
“How?”
“More helpless.”
“That’s worse.”
“Exactly.”
The dungeons were cold that night.
Not simply chilly, not pleasantly atmospheric, not candlelit in the way old castles liked to pretend they were charming instead of damp and full of suspicious noises. Cold. Proper stone cold, the kind that climbed up through the soles of Briar’s boots and settled into her ankles like a complaint. Her knees already ached. Her hips were doing that slow, grinding, awful thing they did when the weather pressed too hard on the castle walls. Her shoulders were tight with nerves, and under the nerves, as always, beneath everything, the low static of intrusive thoughts hummed and hissed.
What if someone saw them?
What if they got caught?
What if she said something stupid?
What if she touched something dirty?
What if she drank from the wrong glass?
What if she annoyed Aria?
What if she wanted to leave immediately and ruined it?
What if—
Aria’s hand found hers.
Warm fingers. Rings cold against Briar’s skin. A squeeze.
“Still with me?”
Briar looked at her.
Aria was all sharp eyeliner and careless grin under the dungeon torchlight, her hair loose down her back, dyed ends flickering in the orange glow. She looked impossibly at ease. Not calm, exactly. Aria was never calm. But settled into the danger of herself. Like noise suited her. Like trouble recognised her and stepped aside.
Briar squeezed back.
“Still with you.”
“Good girl.”
Briar flushed so hard she nearly tripped on a flagstone.
Aria cackled. “Oh, you’re going to be fun.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“You breathed weird.”
“I did not.”
“You did. Little mouse breath. Very telling.”
“Can we please just go before I change my mind?”
Aria’s grin softened. “Yeah. Come on.”
The party was hidden behind a tapestry Briar had walked past a hundred times and never once questioned.
Aria tapped the stones beside it with two knuckles, then muttered something Briar couldn’t hear over the distant thud of music. The tapestry shimmered. A seam appeared in the wall where there had been no seam before, and warm air spilled out, carrying bass, laughter, smoke, perfume, sweat, and something sweet and sour that made Briar’s nose wrinkle.
“Last chance,” Aria said.
Briar looked at the opening in the wall. Light flickered beyond it, green and gold and red and blue all bleeding together, charmed lanterns bobbing like drunk fireflies. The music was low and heavy, vibrating up through the stones into the soles of her feet.
Her heart kicked.
“I want to go in.”
Aria smiled, wild and proud.
“Then welcome to the pit.”
Inside, the dungeon did not look like a dungeon anymore.
It looked like someone had taken an old storage chamber, shaken it violently, and let every bad idea in the castle fall out.
The ceiling was low and ribbed with shadow. The walls were sweating. Charmed lights pulsed in time with the music, flashing across faces Briar didn’t recognise: students from all four houses, some in uniform shirts untucked and half-buttoned, some in party clothes, some with glitter streaked across their cheeks, some wearing ties around their heads, some sitting on barrels, some dancing, some shouting over the music, some passing bottles, cups, sweets, cigarettes, gossip, dares.
There were cushions in one corner, a table in another stacked with drinks in mismatched cups and bottles, a crate full of snacks, two lamps with no shades, and one lamp shade with no lamp.
Briar stared at it all.
“Oh,” she said faintly.
Aria leaned close to her ear. “Too much?”
Briar’s hand tightened on hers. “No.”
“You sure?”
“No, but I still want to be here.”
“That’s my girl.”
Someone shouted Aria’s name from across the room.
Then someone else shouted it.
Then another person did.
Briar blinked as three different people waved at Aria at once, and Aria lifted a hand like a queen acknowledging a particularly stupid kingdom.
“You know everyone,” Briar said.
“I know enough.”
“That’s everyone.”
“It’s not everyone.”
A boy Briar had never seen before stumbled past and grinned at Aria. “Parkinson! You came!”
“Clearly.”
“You brought someone?”
“No, she’s a hallucination. Keep up.”
The boy looked at Briar. “Hi.”
Briar gave a small wave. “Hello.”
He looked briefly enchanted by the politeness of it, then vanished into the crush again.
Aria laughed and pulled Briar further inside.
For the first half hour, Briar did exactly what she had promised.
She stayed glued to Aria’s side.
She watched.
She learned that parties were less like one event and more like twelve disasters happening in the same room. Someone was teaching a group of people a dance and getting furious because none of them had rhythm. Someone else was losing a game of cards so badly they’d started accusing the cards of betrayal. Two girls were sitting on the floor sharing crisps and laughing so hard they had tears running down their faces. A cluster by the drinks table kept chanting whenever anyone picked up a cup. A boy in the corner was trying to juggle bottles and being loudly told to stop before he killed someone.
Aria moved through it like she had a map only she could see.
She shouted greetings. She kissed cheeks. She stole crisps. She called someone a beautiful idiot. She accepted a cup from someone, sniffed it, made a face, drank it anyway, then passed Briar a little paper cup of something pale and fizzy.
“This one’s fine,” Aria said. “Tiny sips.”
Briar sniffed it. “What is it?”
“Something that won’t make you see time.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer you’re getting in this environment.”
Briar took a cautious sip.
It tasted sweet. Too sweet, really. Like fruit and fizz and heat underneath.
She coughed.
Aria patted her back, grinning. “There she is.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Yeah.”
“Why does it taste like that?”
“Because someone made it in a cauldron and their moral compass is decorative.”
Briar stared at the cup.
Then, because she didn’t know what else to do with it, she took another sip.
Aria laughed, threw an arm over her shoulders, and dragged her towards the snack table.
For a while, it was almost easy.
Aria kept close. Briar watched people and let the music thrum through her chest. She said hello when people said hello. She laughed when Aria said something awful. She ate a handful of crisps and then worried her fingers were greasy until Aria wiped them with a cloth from her bag without making a fuss.
It was loud.
It was strange.
It was terrifying.
It was also, annoyingly, a little wonderful.
Nobody looked at Briar the way she’d been afraid they would. Or, perhaps, they did and she simply couldn’t tell in the constantly moving light. Nobody asked her why she was there. Nobody demanded she dance or speak or know how to behave. They just folded around her, noisy and careless, as if her awkwardness was not a crime but merely another object in the room.
Then someone handed her another drink.
Briar startled, accepting it by instinct. “Oh. Thank you.”
Aria was arguing with someone about music, one arm around Briar, eyes bright and unfocused in the lights.
The cup was warm from someone else’s hand.
Briar looked at it.
She should ask Aria.
She should put it down.
She should say no.
But the person who had handed it to her smiled, already looking away, and Briar’s mouth filled with that familiar panic of being rude, of making someone uncomfortable, of being watched, of doing the wrong thing. The cup sat in her hand like a test.
She drank some.
It tasted different from the first one. Sharper. Bitter at the back of her tongue.
Her face twisted.
Aria glanced over. “What’ve you got?”
“I don’t know.”
“Briar.”
“Someone gave it to me.”
“Why did you drink it?”
“I panicked politely.”
Aria stared at her, then burst out laughing. “You panicked politely?”
“I didn’t want to be weird.”
“You’re wearing a cardigan at a dungeon rave. That ship’s wearing a little hat and sailing into the moon.”
Briar frowned. “That made no sense.”
“I’m drunk. It doesn’t have to.” Aria plucked the cup from Briar’s hand, sniffed it, took a sip, then made a considering noise. “Hmm. Not the worst.”
“Aria.”
“What?”
“You drank from it after me.”
“I’ve done worse things for less emotional reasons.” Aria handed it back. “Slowly. Or don’t. Probably don’t.”
“I’ll probably don’t.”
“Good.”
Briar held the cup.
Then someone shouted for Aria again.
Aria shouted back.
Someone pulled her by the hand.
Aria took one step, then looked back at Briar. “Coming?”
Briar nodded quickly and followed.
The music changed.
The room cheered.
Aria screamed with delight and shoved her cup at the nearest available surface. “Oh, this one!”
“What?” Briar asked.
“This one!”
“That’s not more information!”
But Aria was already dancing.
Not simply moving. Not swaying. Dancing like her body had been waiting all day to be released from whatever laws governed everyone else. She spun fast, hair whipping, arms up, eyes closed, laughing so hard her teeth flashed in the lights. Someone joined her. Then someone else. Then she was swallowed in motion, in bodies and bass and smoke, turning and turning and turning.
Briar tried to stay near her.
She did.
For a while.
But someone bumped into her shoulder and apologised. Someone else slipped past. A group surged between them, shouting the lyrics to a song Briar didn’t know. Aria’s green-tipped hair flashed once under red light, then blue, then disappeared.
Briar stopped.
“Aria?”
The music ate her voice.
She rose on her toes.
Too many heads. Too many shoulders. Too much light. Too much smoke.
Her heart kicked hard.
Aria had said stay with me.
She’d lost Aria.
Brilliant. Perfect. Wonderful. First party and she’d immediately become a cautionary tale.
“Aria?”
No answer.
Briar’s stomach tightened.
Then someone pressed a cup into her hand.
“You playing?” a voice shouted.
“What?” Briar shouted back.
“Game!”
“I don’t—”
But the person was already guiding her towards a table where people were laughing and chanting and pointing at cups arranged in a messy line. Briar opened her mouth to protest, but another body moved behind her, and someone cheered, and someone said, “New girl, new girl, come on,” and her panic flared so hot she couldn’t find the word no.
So she stood at the table.
Someone explained rules she couldn’t hear.
Someone laughed.
Someone clinked a cup against hers.
Briar drank because everyone else drank.
The liquid burned.
She coughed into her sleeve and the whole table cheered like she’d done something impressive.
A laugh startled out of her.
It felt strange in her mouth.
Loose.
Unplanned.
Someone shouted something else. The game continued. Briar lost immediately because she had no idea what was happening, and apparently losing meant drinking again, so she did, and when the burn came this time she laughed before she coughed.
Her body was warm now.
Not just her face.
Her whole body.
The ache in her knees blurred at the edges. The tight rope of anxiety around her ribs loosened, thread by thread. The static in her head, the ugly little whispers, the thoughts that came sharp and unwanted and sticky, began to smear into the music until she couldn’t grab them properly anymore.
What if—
The bass swallowed it.
What if—
Someone laughed beside her.
What if—
Briar drank again.
Oh.
Oh, that was different.
She looked down at herself, waiting for the usual catalogue of discomforts to report in. Hip. Knee. Wrist. Shoulder. Skin. Breath. Thought. Fear. Guilt.
The reports came late.
Muffled.
Far away.
Her cardigan sleeve had slipped over her hand. She waved it experimentally.
Someone laughed.
Briar laughed too.
Not because she understood what was funny.
Just because it felt good.
The next song was faster. Someone dragged her from the game into the dancing crowd, and Briar went because her feet were lighter than usual and the floor was doing something interesting underneath her. She didn’t know how to dance. She knew that very clearly. Usually that knowledge would have nailed her to the wall.
Now she simply… danced badly.
Awkwardly.
Magnificently badly.
Her arms moved at the wrong times. Her hips had no plan. Her boots scuffed the floor. Her curls came loose from their clip, springing wild around her face. Her glasses slid down her nose and she shoved them back up, laughing at nothing, at everything, at the way the lights kept making everyone look like stained glass ghosts.
Someone handed her another drink.
She took it.
“Thank you!” she shouted, far too sincerely.
Whoever it was laughed.
Briar drank.
At some point, she found the lampshade.
Or the lampshade found her.
The details were not important.
What mattered was that someone put it on her head, and she thought this was the funniest thing that had ever happened to anyone in recorded history.
“It’s a hat!” she declared.
“It’s a lampshade!” someone shouted.
“It’s both!”
This received wild approval.
Briar beamed.
And then, through a sequence of events that would later refuse to arrange themselves into anything sensible, Briar Rosewood ended up standing on a table.
The table wobbled under her boots.
Hands steadied it.
Someone shouted, “Careful!”
Briar lifted both arms, lampshade tilted over one eye, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, hair wild, cheeks flushed, eyes bright behind crooked glasses.
The music surged.
Briar shouted along to lyrics she absolutely did not know.
She got every word wrong.
She had never felt better in her life.
Across the room, Aria Parkinson finally stopped spinning.
For a second, she stood in the middle of the crowd, breathing hard, skin flushed, pupils blown wide, grin lazy and bright. Her head buzzed pleasantly. Her bones felt electric. The room moved around her like a living thing. Someone was trying to tell her something about a bet, or a broom cupboard, or possibly both.
Then she remembered.
Briar.
Aria turned.
No Briar.
The grin dropped from her face.
“Shit.”
She pushed through the crowd at once, suddenly more sober by force of terror than by fact.
“Move. Move, move, gorgeous, love you, hate your shoes, get out the fucking way.”
She checked by the drinks table.
No Briar.
The snack crate.
No Briar.
The cushion corner.
No Briar.
The game table.
Someone pointed vaguely upwards.
Aria followed the gesture.
And saw Briar Rosewood standing on a table in a lampshade, shouting the wrong words to a song with the joyful confidence of a woman who had never once experienced consequences.
For one whole second, Aria stared.
Then she laughed so hard she nearly folded in half.
“Oh my God.”
Briar spotted her.
Her entire face lit up.
“ARIA!”
Aria clutched her own stomach, wheezing. “Oh, babe.”
“ARIA, LOOK!”
“I’m looking.”
“I’M AT A PARTY!”
“You are so fucking at a party.”
“I’M REALLY GOOD AT IT!”
Aria braced a hand on the edge of the table, still cackling. “Yeah, I can see that.”
Briar leaned forward dangerously. Several people made alarmed noises and steadied the table harder.
“I’M GREAT AT ALCOHOL!”
Aria lost it.
She laughed in ugly, helpless bursts, bending over, one hand pressed to her chest.
Briar, delighted by the reaction, pointed at herself with both hands. “I’M GREAT AT DRINKING! I LOVE IT!”
“Oh, sweetheart, you’re so fucked right now.”
“I’m not!”
“You are wearing furniture.”
Briar looked up as if only now remembering the lampshade. She touched it with both hands.
Then she gasped.
A huge, horrified gasp.
Aria looked up, still laughing. “What?”
Briar crouched on the table, lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper that was somehow still audible over the music. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”
Aria wheezed. “Said what?”
“That I love drinking.”
“Baby, you shouted it from a table.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“I think the table knows.”
“Aria.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“The lamp can know.”
“The lamp can absolutely know.”
Briar nodded solemnly, as if this settled an important legal matter.
Then she swayed.
Aria’s laughter cut off.
“Right. Down.”
“I’m dancing.”
“You’re becoming a health and safety incident.”
“I’m so tall.”
“You’re five seconds away from becoming a floor decoration.”
“I’m taller than you.”
“Briar.”
“I like it up here.”
“Briar Rosewood, get your pretty arse off that table before I climb up there and carry you like a sack of emotionally fragile potatoes.”
Briar considered this.
Then she giggled. “You think I’m pretty.”
“Everyone thinks you’re pretty. Down.”
“With the hat?”
“You may keep the hat.”
Briar held up both hands. “Help.”
Aria climbed half onto the table with the agility of someone who had done far worse in far worse shoes. She wrapped one arm around Briar’s waist and guided her down carefully, muttering, “Easy. Easy. Foot there. No, that’s my hand. Foot. There we go. Oh, you are gone.”
“I’m here.”
“Your soul’s in a different corridor.”
“I feel amazing.”
“I bet you do.”
Briar landed on the floor and immediately leaned into Aria with a soft, happy sigh. The lampshade slid sideways.
Aria pulled it off and tossed it onto the table. “No more hat.”
“No, my crown.”
“Your reign was brief but historic.”
“I was beloved.”
“You were a menace.”
Briar smiled, pleased. “I was beloved.”
Aria looked at her properly now.
Messy hair. Bright eyes. Flushed cheeks. Glasses crooked. Lips stained faintly from whatever drink she’d been sipping. She was smiling too widely, body loose, one hand clinging to Aria’s sleeve like she was still trying to obey the original rule of staying close despite having absolutely demolished it ten minutes earlier.
Aria’s expression softened under the sharpness.
“Come on, little disaster.”
“Where are we going?”
“Quiet corner.”
“But I’m partying.”
“You’ve partied.”
“I’m good at it.”
“You’re too good at it. Terrifying natural talent. Come on.”
Briar let herself be led, weaving slightly through the crowd. Every few steps, she tried to say hello to someone she didn’t know. Aria kept one arm firm around her.
“She’s done,” Aria announced to anyone who attempted to hand Briar anything else.
“I’m not done,” Briar protested.
“You’re so done there should be credits rolling.”
“I’m wonderful.”
“You’re going to be horizontal soon.”
“Like a plant.”
“Plants are vertical, babe.”
“Not all plants.”
Aria paused. “I hate that you’re drunk and still technically right.”
They found a quieter corner behind a stack of old crates and a moth-eaten velvet curtain charmed to muffle some of the sound. The music still thudded through the floor, but here it was softer, blurred around the edges. Someone had abandoned a bowl of pretzels and a plate of bread rolls on one crate. Aria inspected them, sniffed suspiciously, then decided bread rolls were bread rolls and therefore holy in moments of crisis.
She pushed Briar down onto a cushion.
Briar landed with a little “oof” and then giggled.
“Water,” Aria said.
“I’m not thirsty.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“I don’t want water.”
“Your body does.”
“My body feels great.”
“Your body is a lying little bitch right now.”
Briar gasped. “Don’t say that about her.”
Aria dug through her bag and pulled out the bottle she’d packed earlier. “Drink.”
Briar took it and stared at it.
“Briar.”
“I’m thinking.”
“You are not thinking. You are buffering.”
“I’m deciding.”
“About water?”
“It’s important.”
“It’s water, not marriage.”
Briar took a tiny sip, then made a face.
Aria narrowed her eyes. “Did you just make a face at water?”
“It tastes wet.”
“I’m going to scream.”
“It does.”
“Drink more.”
Briar sighed as if Aria were asking her to drain the Black Lake with a spoon. She drank again, longer this time, then handed the bottle back with an expression of noble suffering.
“Good girl.”
Briar melted slightly into the cushion. “You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep needing praise like a Victorian ghost.”
“I like praise.”
“I know.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
Aria snorted. “Add it to the list of secrets you’ve screamed tonight.”
Briar covered her face. “Did I scream it?”
“Not that one.”
“Oh. Good.”
Aria pushed a bread roll into her hand. “Eat.”
Briar looked at the roll with deep confusion. “Why?”
“Because you’ve been drinking mystery dungeon juice from strangers and I’d rather you didn’t die dramatically on me.”
“I’m not going to die.”
“You don’t know that. You thought mud was tea.”
“That was one time.”
“It was a formative one time.”
Briar nibbled the bread.
Aria watched until she swallowed.
“More.”
“You’re bossy.”
“You’re drunk.”
“You’re also drunk.”
“I’m professionally drunk. You’re recreationally obliterated.”
Briar giggled into the bread. “Obliviated.”
“No. Obliterated.”
“Obliviated.”
“Wrong spell.”
“You don’t know.”
“I do know.”
“You know everything here.”
Aria leaned back against the wall, sitting beside her on the cushion now, shoulder warm against Briar’s. “I know enough.”
Briar looked at her with sudden, swimming affection. “I love coming with you.”
Aria’s mouth twitched. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You were scared.”
“I’m still scared.”
“You don’t look scared.”
“Because I’m great at alcohol.”
Aria wheezed again, quieter this time. “Oh, I’m never letting you forget that.”
“You promised.”
“I promised not to tell anyone. I never promised not to bully you privately.”
“That’s mean.”
“That’s friendship.”
Briar rested her head on Aria’s shoulder. “Everything’s quiet.”
Aria glanced down. “In here?”
Briar tapped her temple clumsily. “In here.”
The teasing slipped off Aria’s face.
Briar’s eyes were half-lidded behind her glasses. Her voice had gone soft and thick, barely carrying over the muffled bass.
“It’s usually loud,” Briar said.
Aria said nothing.
“My knees don’t hurt as much.” Briar flexed her fingers against the bread roll, squashing it slightly. “And my head isn’t doing the awful thing. The sticky thing. It’s like… like someone put blankets over all of it.”
Aria looked away, jaw working once.
Then she reached out and gently took the mutilated bread roll from Briar before it disintegrated in her hand.
“Yeah,” Aria said quietly. “That can happen.”
“I like it.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want it to come back.”
Aria swallowed.
The party kept going around them, distant and bright, the world beyond the curtain pulsing with colour and shouting and life.
Aria leaned her head lightly against Briar’s.
“It’ll come back,” she said, voice softer than usual. “But I’ll be there when it does.”
Briar blinked slowly.
Then smiled.
“Okay.”
Aria nudged the water bottle back into her hands. “More water.”
“You ruined the moment.”
“I saved the moment. The moment was dehydrated.”
Briar laughed and drank.
For a little while, that worked.
The water. The bread. The quiet corner. Aria’s shoulder under Briar’s cheek. The music making the floor hum without chewing up the whole room. Briar’s body loose and warm and oddly floaty, as if she’d been packed in cotton wool and lowered gently into a dream.
Aria kept teasing her.
Briar kept giggling.
Someone came by and asked if they were coming back to dance.
Aria said, “She’s communing with bread right now.”
Briar held up the roll solemnly. “It understands me.”
The person laughed and left.
Briar felt proud.
Then the room tilted.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
A slow, unpleasant shift, like the floor had sighed and moved half an inch sideways.
Briar frowned.
Aria noticed immediately. “You good?”
“Yes.”
The word came too quickly.
Aria sat up. “Briar.”
“I’m fine.”
“You went pale.”
“I’m always pale.”
“You went ghost pale.”
Briar swallowed.
The bread in her stomach had become a stone. The warmth in her body was changing, souring, turning thick and oily under her skin. The blurred edges were no longer soft. They were spinning.
“Oh,” she said.
Aria was already moving. “Bathroom.”
“No, I’m—”
Briar clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Bathroom,” Aria repeated.
The journey there became a nightmare in pieces.
Aria’s arm around her waist.
The crush of bodies.
The lights too bright now, cutting across Briar’s eyes like knives.
The music no longer lovely and heavy but enormous, monstrous, pounding against her skull. Someone laughed near her and the sound went straight through her teeth. The smell of smoke and alcohol and perfume turned rotten in her throat.
“I don’t feel good,” Briar whimpered against her hand.
“I know. Nearly there.”
“I don’t feel good.”
“I’ve got you.”
“I’m going to be sick.”
“Not on my boots.”
“Aria.”
“Kidding, babe. Mostly. Come on.”
The bathroom door slammed open under Aria’s hand.
It was quieter in there.
Not quiet. The music still thumped through the walls, pipes rattling faintly overhead, but the room itself was colder, tiled, lit by two flickering sconces that made everything look sickly gold. There was a row of sinks, a cracked mirror, a bathtub shoved against one wall for reasons Briar could not begin to understand, and three stalls, one of which had a door hanging at an ominous angle.
Briar made it two steps inside before her stomach lurched.
Aria moved fast.
“Here, here, I’ve got you.”
Briar dropped to her knees in front of the toilet and threw up.
It was awful.
Immediate, violent, humiliating. Her whole body seized around it. Her eyes watered. Her glasses slipped down her nose. Her hair fell forward. She made a horrible choking sob between heaves, hands hovering uselessly because she couldn’t make herself touch the toilet, couldn’t grip the rim, couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t—
Then Aria’s arm slid in front of her.
“Hold me,” Aria said. “There. Hold my arm. Don’t touch anything else.”
Briar clutched Aria’s forearm with both hands like a lifeline, leaning over it while she gagged again. Aria sat sideways on the edge of the tub beside her, one leg crossed over the other, perfectly casual except for the hand gathering Briar’s hair back from her face and rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades.
“That’s it,” Aria murmured. “Get it up. You’re alright.”
Briar sobbed into the toilet. “I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying.”
“I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying, you’re learning.”
“I hate learning.”
“I know, babe.”
Briar threw up again and wailed.
Aria winced in sympathy and reached into her bag one-handed. “Oh, that was a nasty one. Good job.”
“Don’t praise me for puking.”
“I praise all achievements.”
“This isn’t an achievement.”
“It is if you’re brave about it.”
“I’m not brave.”
“You’re not touching the toilet, are you?”
Briar sniffled violently. “No.”
“Then you’re doing amazing.”
Briar sobbed harder.
Aria got a hair tie between her teeth, twisted Briar’s curls back with practised fingers, and tied them messily away from her damp face. Then she patted through her bag again and pulled out the brown paper package.
Inside was a blunt.
Briar cracked one watery eye open. “Are you smoking?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m vomiting.”
“I noticed.”
“Is this the time?”
Aria lit it with a candle flame, then leaned back on the tub like a woman waiting for a train. “This is exactly the time.”
Briar groaned. “You’re awful.”
“I’m soothing.”
“You’re smoking.”
“Multitasking.”
Briar tried to glare at her, but her stomach rolled again and she lurched forward.
Aria immediately shifted, arm steady beneath Briar’s grip, hand firm in her hair.
“There we go. Let it happen. Don’t fight it.”
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I hate parties.”
“No, you loved parties about twenty minutes ago.”
“I never said that.”
“You told me you were great at alcohol.”
Briar made a broken, miserable noise. “Don’t.”
“And that you loved drinking.”
“Aria.”
“And then you told me not to tell anyone.”
Briar whimpered into Aria’s arm. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Why?”
“I was on a table.”
“You were iconic.”
“I had a lampshade.”
“Many great women have worn worse.”
“No, they haven’t.”
“Probably not, no.”
Briar let out a laugh that turned into a sob and then into another miserable gag.
Aria rubbed her back through it, calm as anything, smoke curling lazily from the blunt between her fingers. Her own eyeliner was smudged. Her pupils were still too wide. She was drunk enough that the bathroom floor seemed to breathe if she looked at it too long, high enough that the candlelight had soft halos, but her hands were steady on Briar.
They were always steady when it mattered.
“That’s it,” she cooed. “Good. Good, sweetheart. Breathe now. In through your nose if you can. Out through your mouth. Slowly.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I can’t.”
“You are. Look at you, doing it while arguing with me. Very talented.”
Briar sobbed. “My mouth tastes horrible.”
“I’ve got mints.”
“My face is wet.”
“I’ve got wipes.”
“My head hurts.”
“I’ve got something for that too.”
“My stomach hates me.”
“Your stomach is unionising.”
Briar made another sad, ridiculous noise. “Why did people keep giving me drinks?”
“Because you looked polite and corruptible.”
“I was polite.”
“You drank every mystery cup handed to you.”
“I didn’t want to be rude.”
Aria took a drag, then exhaled away from Briar. “Babe, you have got to stop treating your own liver like it’s less important than some random person’s feelings.”
Briar sniffed. “That sounds fair.”
“It is fair.”
“I don’t like fair right now.”
“No one does when they’re hugging a toilet.”
“I’m not hugging it.”
“No. You’re hugging me. Much cleaner. Also prettier.”
Briar tightened her grip on Aria’s arm. “Don’t move.”
“I’m not moving.”
“You’ll leave.”
“I won’t.”
“You lost me.”
Aria’s face changed.
Only for a second.
A flash of guilt, sharp and ugly, passed through the softness of her expression.
Then she leaned forward and pressed her cheek briefly against the top of Briar’s messy hair.
“I did,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
Briar hiccupped.
“I was dancing,” Aria continued, voice low. “And I got distracted. That was my fault.”
“I was meant to stay with you.”
“Yeah, well, you’re drunk and sweet and stupidly polite, so the adult in the room was meant to keep eyes on you.”
“You’re not an adult.”
“I’m closer than you are right now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
“I ruined it.”
Aria gave a startled little laugh. “Ruined what?”
“The party.”
“Briar, this bathroom has seen three breakdowns, a haircut, two fights, and someone trying to wash crisps in the sink before tonight. You have not ruined anything.”
Briar lifted her head slightly, eyes swollen and wet. “Someone washed crisps?”
“Don’t focus on that.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask because I respect mystery.”
Briar sniffled, then leaned forward quickly and spat into the toilet, face crumpling again. “I feel disgusting.”
“I know.”
“My makeup’s everywhere.”
“I’ll fix it.”
“My hair’s bad.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
“I’m never drinking again.”
“Classic.”
“I mean it.”
“You definitely mean it right now.”
“I’m serious.”
“I believe you.”
“You don’t.”
“No, I do. I believe current you completely. Future you may develop opinions near music.”
Briar groaned and rested her forehead on Aria’s arm. “I want to go.”
“Yeah,” Aria said softly. “That’s enough for tonight.”
The words seemed to unlock something in Briar. Her whole body shuddered with relief, and then she started crying again, loud and helpless and drunk, tears spilling over her cheeks.
Aria did not tell her to stop.
She balanced the blunt between her lips, dug through her bag, and found a packet of wipes. She pulled one out with her teeth and one hand, snapped the packet shut, then gently dabbed at Briar’s cheeks.
Briar flinched. “Cold.”
“Yeah, it’s a wipe. That’s their whole personality.”
“I’m ugly.”
“You’re not ugly.”
“I’m snotty.”
“You’re snotty and pretty. Women contain multitudes.”
Briar laughed wetly. “That’s horrible.”
“That was beautiful.”
“That was not beautiful.”
“You’re too drunk to appreciate me.”
“I appreciate you.”
Aria paused.
Briar’s eyes were half-shut, lashes clumped with tears, face blotchy, hair tied up badly and escaping everywhere. She looked miserable, ruined, small again — but she was still holding Aria’s arm like she trusted it more than the floor.
Aria’s mouth softened.
“Yeah?”
Briar nodded. Then immediately regretted it and whimpered. “Spinning.”
“No nodding. Terrible plan.”
“I appreciate you without nodding.”
“Good.”
“You brought things for me.”
“I knew something like this would happen.”
Briar blinked, offended through the tears. “You knew I’d be sick?”
“I knew there was a chance you’d either panic, overdo it, cry, need pain stuff, need snacks, or adopt a spider. I packed broadly.”
“I wouldn’t adopt a spider.”
“You absolutely would if it looked sad.”
Briar considered this with visible effort.
Then whispered, “Maybe.”
Aria grinned around the blunt. “Exactly.”
Briar’s stomach cramped again. She leaned forward with a whine, but nothing much came up this time. Just a miserable gag that left her shaking.
Aria stubbed the blunt carefully against the edge of a broken soap dish, saving what was left, then focused fully on her.
“Okay. I think most of it’s done.”
“I hate the word most.”
“Fair. Tiny sip of water. Rinse your mouth, spit, don’t swallow yet.”
Briar whimpered. “I don’t want anything in my mouth.”
“Water. Not alcohol. Water is your friend.”
“It tastes wet.”
“Yes, we’ve covered that scandal.”
Aria helped her rinse, then wiped her mouth again. She found a mint and held it out.
Briar stared at it suspiciously.
“It’s a mint,” Aria said.
“Is it secretly something else?”
“No.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Because at this party, cups were not what they seemed.”
“Very philosophical. Eat the mint.”
Briar took it and immediately looked slightly less devastated.
Aria then found the headache draught and a small pain potion, measured both carefully with the seriousness of someone defusing a bomb, and only gave Briar what she needed.
Briar watched blearily. “You’re good at this.”
“I’m good at disasters.”
“That’s sad.”
“That’s life.”
“No, it’s sad.”
“Fine. It’s sad and life. Very poetic. Drink.”
Briar drank with a grimace.
“Good.”
“Stop saying good like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m a puppy.”
“You’re currently more like a damp baby deer.”
“That’s worse.”
“It is accurate.”
Briar leaned back from the toilet at last, trembling. Aria shifted off the tub and slid down onto the floor beside her, despite the questionable tiles. She pulled the soft scarf from her bag and wrapped it around Briar’s shoulders.
Briar clutched it. “This is yours.”
“It was in my bag.”
“You brought it for me.”
“Maybe.”
“You did.”
“Maybe you looked like a librarian kidnapping victim and I knew you’d get cold.”
Briar’s eyes filled again.
Aria pointed at her. “No. No more crying. Your face is going to pickle.”
“I can’t help it.”
“What is it now?”
“You’re nice.”
Aria looked personally insulted. “Take that back.”
“You’re so nice to me.”
“Disgusting accusation.”
“You are.”
“Briar.”
“You take care of me.”
Aria huffed, but her cheeks had gone faintly pink under the messy flush of drink and smoke. She looked away, pretending to sort through her bag.
“You’re easy to take care of.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m anxious and sore and weird and I cried because my sock felt wrong last week.”
“Your sock did look wrong.”
“It looked normal.”
“It offended you. That’s wrong enough.”
Briar stared at her, lower lip wobbling.
Aria sighed and reached over, tucking a curl behind Briar’s ear.
“Listen to me,” she said, gentler now. “You are drunk as fuck and everything feels enormous. So here’s the small version. You came to a party. You got silly. You drank too much. You danced on a table. You threw up. Now I’m getting you back to Hufflepuff and into bed. That’s it. No tragedy. No scandal. No moral collapse. Just a night.”
Briar sniffed. “A bad night?”
Aria smiled.
“A legendary night.”
Briar blinked. “Really?”
“You wore a lampshade and declared yourself great at alcohol.”
Briar covered her face with both hands. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“I promised.”
“You’ll tell me, though.”
“Forever.”
Briar groaned into her hands.
Aria laughed and kissed the side of her head. “Come on. Can you stand?”
“No.”
“Can you try?”
“No.”
“Can you try for me?”
Briar peeked through her fingers. “That’s unfair.”
“That’s why I said it.”
“You’re manipulative.”
“And strong. Up.”
It took longer than either of them expected.
Briar’s legs had become decorative. Her knees wobbled, her balance wandered off, and the floor continued to behave with deep disrespect. Aria got one arm around her waist and hauled her up with a grunt.
“Merlin, you’re dead weight.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologise. I love a challenge.”
“I feel like soup.”
“You’re standing like soup.”
“Soup doesn’t stand.”
“Exactly.”
Briar leaned heavily into her, cheek dropping against Aria’s shoulder. “Can we sleep here?”
“In the toilet bathroom?”
“It’s quiet.”
“It smells like regret and old plumbing.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do. You’re not dying in a dungeon bathroom. Move your feet.”
“I don’t have feet.”
“You had them earlier. They were on a table.”
Briar made a tiny distressed sound. “Why would you remind me?”
“Motivation.”
“That’s not motivation.”
“It motivated me.”
Aria got the bathroom door open and checked the corridor outside. The hidden rave still thundered nearby, but the passage beyond was mostly empty, cold and dim. The wall seam pulsed faintly behind the tapestry as people moved in and out of the party.
Briar flinched at the renewed sound.
Aria shifted, putting herself between Briar and the noise. “Eyes on me.”
“My eyes are tired.”
“Half an eye, then.”
Briar opened one eye.
Aria grinned. “Beautiful. Horrifying, but beautiful.”
“You’re blurry.”
“You’re drunk.”
“You have two noses.”
“I deserve both.”
Briar giggled weakly.
“There she is.” Aria squeezed her waist. “Come on. Hufflepuff.”
The walk back was slow.
Painfully slow.
Briar shuffled more than walked, one hand clinging to Aria’s jacket, the other holding the scarf tight around her shoulders. The cold air helped a little, sharpening the edges of things without making them cruel. Her stomach still churned, her head still spun, and every so often she made a small miserable noise that had Aria stopping at once, hand ready, eyes searching her face.
But she didn’t throw up again.
They passed through dungeon corridors washed in torchlight and shadow. The stones were old and slick in places. Somewhere far behind them, the party kept breathing, hidden in the belly of the castle, all bass and laughter and bad choices. Ahead, Hufflepuff waited warm and gold near the kitchens, tucked into the earth like a secret someone kind had remembered to keep.
Briar dragged her feet.
Aria looked down. “You with me?”
“Mhm.”
“Words, flower girl.”
“I’m with you.”
“Good.”
“My head hurts.”
“I know.”
“My mouth tastes minty and horrible.”
“Better than vomit and horrible.”
“That’s true.”
“I’m wise.”
“You’re high.”
“I can be both.”
Briar thought about this for several steps. “You can.”
Aria smiled to herself. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re going to feel like death tomorrow.”
Briar groaned. “Don’t say that.”
“You are. You’re going to wake up and swear the castle is too loud.”
“It is too loud.”
“You’re going to hate light.”
“I already hate light.”
“You’re going to make tragic noises into a pillow.”
“I do that sober.”
“True.”
Briar lifted her head slightly. “Will you stay?”
The question was small.
Aria didn’t tease it.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’ll stay.”
The corridor seemed longer than usual. Briar’s body was beginning to hurt again, the softness wearing thin at the edges. Her knees complained first, then her hips, then the deep ache in her shoulders from being tense and then loose and then tense again. The thoughts were coming back too, slow and sticky, not as sharp yet but gathering.
What if she’d embarrassed herself?
What if people laughed tomorrow?
What if Aria was secretly annoyed?
What if she’d been too much?
What if—
Aria nudged her. “No.”
Briar blinked. “What?”
“You’re thinking too loudly.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“My face can’t talk.”
“Yours can. It’s very anxious.”
Briar swallowed. “I embarrassed you.”
“No.”
“I did.”
“You entertained me.”
“That’s worse.”
“No, that’s the highest honour available.”
“I was stupid.”
“You were drunk.”
“I shouldn’t have had so much.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
Briar looked up at her. “Next time?”
Aria’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, suddenly there’s a next time?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.”
Aria laughed softly. “We’ll discuss next time when you can stand without looking like a tragic woodland creature.”
“I don’t think I’m great at alcohol.”
“No, babe.”
Briar sighed. “I think I’m bad at it.”
“You’re enthusiastic at it.”
“That’s worse.”
“It’s fixable.”
“How?”
“By not drinking every cup handed to you by the dungeon goblins.”
“They weren’t goblins.”
“Emotionally, they were goblins.”
Briar nodded solemnly, then immediately winced. “No nodding.”
“No nodding,” Aria agreed.
By the time they reached the Hufflepuff entrance, Briar was almost asleep on her feet.
Aria got the door open with some whispered password Briar only half-heard, then guided her through into warmth.
The common room was quiet.
Soft yellow light. Round doors. Low couches. The smell of earth and honey and old wood. Plants slept in pots along the walls, leaves curled inward. The whole room seemed to hush around Briar, gentle as hands.
Briar nearly cried again from relief.
Aria noticed. “Nearly there.”
“I love my common room.”
“It loves you too. Very clingy architecture.”
“It’s warm.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m cold.”
“I know. Bed.”
The stairs to the dormitory were cruel.
Briar told them so.
Aria agreed and called them bastards.
This helped.
By the time they reached Briar’s bed, Briar had gone floppy with exhaustion. Aria sat her down, unlaced her boots, peeled off her cardigan, and handed her a soft sleep shirt without making her search for one. Briar changed clumsily while Aria looked away with exaggerated dignity, then immediately needed help because her sleeve had become an enemy.
Aria fixed it.
“There,” she said. “Not dead. In pyjamas. Massive progress.”
Briar sat on the edge of the bed, swaying slightly. “I need to brush my teeth.”
“You rinsed and had a mint.”
“That’s not brushing.”
“You can brush in the morning.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“You can barely perceive gravity.”
“My teeth feel wrong.”
Aria paused.
Then sighed.
“Fine. Teeth. But I’m coming with you because I don’t trust you not to lie down in the sink.”
Briar nodded, then whispered, “No nodding,” to herself and stood up again with Aria’s help.
Teeth were brushed.
Badly, but they were brushed.
Briar cried once because toothpaste tasted too strong.
Aria rinsed the brush, wiped Briar’s face again, and herded her back to bed with the patience of someone handling an injured animal with a flair for theatre.
At last, Briar was under the covers.
Aria sat beside her, sorting the room into order with quick little movements. Water on the bedside table. Pain potion within reach for the morning. A bowl from somewhere, just in case. Wipes. Crackers. Glasses folded neatly beside the bed. Hair loosened from the terrible tie and braided back quickly so it wouldn’t tangle too badly while she slept.
Briar watched her through heavy eyes.
“You’re still here.”
Aria looked over. “I said I’d stay.”
“You say lots of things.”
“Rude.”
“True.”
“Also rude.”
Briar smiled faintly.
Aria finished the braid and tucked it over Briar’s shoulder. “There. Pretty again.”
“I was ugly earlier.”
“You were never ugly.”
“I had sick on my face.”
“And yet.”
Briar’s mouth trembled. “Thank you.”
Aria’s expression flickered, soft and unguarded in the dim dormitory light.
“Sleep, Briar.”
“Don’t leave.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Promise?”
Aria kicked off her boots, shrugged off her jacket, and climbed onto the bed over the covers beside her, sitting with her back against the headboard. “See? Staying.”
Briar shifted closer immediately, curling awkwardly against her side.
Aria let her.
For once, she didn’t make a joke.
The room settled. Somewhere far below, the castle groaned quietly in its sleep. The party was impossibly distant now, reduced to memory: lights, smoke, laughter, a lampshade crown, the bright foolish feeling of being weightless for a little while.
Briar’s eyelids fluttered.
“Aria?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t think I’m great at drinking.”
Aria’s lips twitched. “No?”
“No.”
“What are you great at, then?”
Briar thought about it, slow and sleepy.
“Plants.”
“Yeah.”
“And crying.”
“You are very gifted.”
“And being polite.”
“Dangerously.”
“And having you.”
Aria went quiet.
Briar was already half asleep, cheek pressed to Aria’s side, one hand curled around the edge of her sleeve like she might lose her again if she let go.
Aria looked down at her for a long moment.
Then she brushed a loose curl from Briar’s forehead.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “You’re pretty good at that.”
Briar smiled with her eyes closed.
“Don’t tell anyone about the lampshade.”
Aria leaned her head back against the wall and grinned into the dark.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, babe.”
Briar hummed, satisfied.
A minute passed.
Then, barely audible, thick with sleep, she whispered, “The lamp can know.”
Aria pressed a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing too loudly.
“Yes,” she whispered back. “The lamp can know.”
Briar slept.
And Aria stayed there beside her until morning, smelling faintly of smoke and dungeon air, one leg crossed at the ankle, hand resting lightly on Briar’s blanket like a promise she’d never say out loud.