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She hums, eyebrows bunching. “Maybe they provide outfits to students who are less fortunate?” Her eyes widen. “I’m not insulting you.”

“I know you’re not.” She doesn’t strike me as the type of person who cares how much I have. “You’re probably right, though. I didn’t have much when I arrived. Maybe the registration lady marked that down.”

Though she didn’t seem the type to be doing me any favors. I grab the Diremount University backpack—something at least everyone got—and my schedule from the desk, trying not to think too hard about the mysterious arrival of clothes. It’s probably like Ever said. There are plenty of Ferals who didn’t come with much. I really have to stop being suspicious of every good thing that happens.

“Ready for breakfast? I’m starving.”

Ever smiles, nose wrinkling in that way that reminds me of Addy. “Now you’re speaking my love language.”

The easier it is for Ever and me to hang out without it being awkward, the more I miss my twin, and that makes this possible friendship a double-edged sword. I fiddle with the necklace, stomach hollow and heart heavy. At some point, I’ll have to dig through the archives and do some research to figure out what happened. Mr. Peters swore she was dead, but she can’t be. Maybe it’s the twin bond, or wishful thinking, but either way, I can feel her out there somewhere. Besides, Mr. Peters wasn’t exactly someone to trust.

I rub at my aching chest as we walk out of our spire.

The rugged mountains surrounding campus rise in several peaks blanketed in greenery—mostly trees, some bushes, and vines crawling up trunks and canopies. The air is crisper and cleaner than back home. It's beautiful, maybe even peaceful if not for all the people. I brace myself as we pass through the sliding doors of the cafetorium. Conversations rush to greet us, and unease roils in my gut. A collection of hundreds of voices mingle together until the words become indecipherable.

Ugh. People.

Other than being captured by demons, large groups of paranorms are my biggest nightmare.

Sure, not everyone is a terrible piece of shit like Mr. Peters, but a lot of them are, and as it turns out, my nervous system can’t tell the difference between socializing and being attacked by a demon. Yay, trauma!

“There better be toast left,” I grumble.

“I’m surprised the Foundations didn’t demand room service,” Ever says as we take in the crowd.

Students are milling about carrying trays of food. There are at least 300 tables scattered about the first floor and even more on the second level. While some students pile into tables too tiny for their numbers, other groups are smaller. The majority of the Foundation population is concentrated in the middle of the rectangular floor that houses the tables. A scattering of students sits at the edges of the room, farther away from the rest.

Now, they have the right idea.

Ever and I make our way to the buffet line. The conversations around us peter out, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise. Annoyance shoots through me, but I tip my chin, refusing to acknowledge that I’m definitely being stared at.

What? A girl can’t dampen the Threshold and get yelled at by Chancellor Tweed without becoming hot gossip?

“Don’t let them get to you,” Ever whispers. “They’re only staring because they’re intimidated.”

I press my lips together and take a tray, quickly grabbing eggs, bacon, toast, and an orange. At the barista station, after confirming it’s included as part of the free daily meals, I order a mage roast. Paranorms can naturally metabolize normal caffeine in a matter of minutes, but a good mage roast will carry me through the morning.

Ever gets her macchiato and sets it on her tray, eyeing me and tipping her head toward the crowded tables. “Ready for battle?”

Not even close. “Why does this feel worse than picking a dorm?”

“Because we’re about to wade into the depths of the Diremount social hierarchy, and you don’t exactly seem like the type of girl who follows the crowd?”

“Was it my sparkly personality that gave you that impression?” I deadpan.

“Something like that.”

I turn to face the tables. A lot of students have the decency to avert their gaze to hide that they were watching us. The handful that don’t simply stare or have whispered conversations with their groups. This is going to suck, but I can’t let them catch me sweating their attention. One hint of blood, and the sharks will attack. “Follow me.”

Ever nods, and I pick my way through the tables, heading toward the far end of the room that’s mostly empty. Hushed chatter trails after us. My knuckles protest at how hard I’m gripping the tray. The part of me that’s had to face rejection and vicious bullying for being an orphan wants to whirl around and ask them all what the fuck they’re looking at.

{They’re intimidated,} the voice in my head muses, sounding pleased.

That, or they’re worried I’m going to mess up the veil. I’d bet on that over them being intimidated.

“Well, you’re certainly popular,” Ever says with a wry grin as she sits across from me. Smiling comes so easy to her.

The tabletop is scratched from years of use. I set my tray down and roll my eyes. “So it would seem.” I pick up a piece of bacon and scan the crowd. Most have turned back to their meals, but some Foundations make a point to give me nasty glares. A chick with long brunette hair and icy blue eyes scowls when our gazes clash. Tossing her brunette strands over her shoulder with a flick of her head, she stands and moves toward us, a few of her minions rushing after her.