By the time I reached the gates of our castle.
I was still, somehow, vibrating from Maeve's kisses. My phone buzzed twice more in my pocket, my mother's digital version of the royal summons, but I ignored it.
There were bigger problems, namely sneaking back inside without looking like someone who'd spent half the evening tangled on a couch.
Spoiler: I absolutely failed.
The great hall was quiet, which meant Rowena had claimed the main sofa and the biggest scrying screen for herself. I followed the sound of raucous laughter echoing off stone, the particular rhythm of snorting that belonged only to my twin.
There she was: sprawled in all her glory, feet propped up on an enchanted footstool, one hand deep in a bowl of spicy popcorn, her hair a flaming red-and-brown mess.
Some ridiculous magical sitcom was blaring, the kind where the hero keeps accidentally summoning chickens instead of fireballs.
