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A horn blares. The robed figure holds his arms in an X overhead.

“And…” Beaulah mutters.

Three people emerge from the forest, each collapsing at the finish line. The room explodes in applause. However, Beaulah doesn’t move.

“Georgie? Where is he, Headmistress?” The woman speaking holds her handkerchief tightly to her chest.

“He’s a strong boy, May. He’s got one more horn.”

“He’s down to seconds.”

A long wail from the horn blares right as someone dashes out of the forest. Barefoot, shirtless, and covered in filth. His long blond hair is wild and his expression feral. His skin is coated in red. I straighten, realizing that it is not paint. Beaulah and the boy’s mother embrace in a tight hug. She catches me staring, and a thousand questions swirl in my head.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Congratulations to your son. I’m sure you must be very proud for the, um, pin he is earning.”

Beaulah pulls off a shelf an ornate box like one I’d seen in Jordan’s room at Chateau Soleil. The one he refused to let me touch. She passes it into the woman’s hands. “This is Miss Marionne’s first time visiting Hartsboro.”

“Ah. The Trials are our favorite tradition. I didn’t get to say hello last night.” She says the last part under her breath. “I’m Maybel Kinsley, of the original Kinsleys. Nice to meet you in person, Miss Marionne.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

“And just in time,” Beaulah says as the four candidates from the grounds below enter the room. Each is slick with sweat, their bloodied clothes hanging in shreds. Georgie is the worst off, with a puffed eye that’s swelling shut. Raw slashes cut into his pale chest and he stares into space, hardly breathing. The room greets them with raucous applause, chanting, “Memento sumptus.” The revelry finishes with a collective growl and a firm fist to the chest. The four candidates are bleary-eyed and jumpy as they watch the crowd close around them. Champagne sloshes in glasses, and the music picks up. The room pops with celebratory giggles.

“Let’s get them pinned,” Beaulah shouts, with four boxes in her hand.

Mrs. Kinsley appears beside me with Georgie roped onto her arm. I try to meet his gaze, but it’s vacant, as he stares at nothing. His fingers are badly bruised and remind me of my own hands. What on earth happened in that forest?

“Mom—they put us”—his voice cracks—“in holes. And—” His hand trembles on his mother’s arm.

“Listen to you. You sound delirious. You’re okay.”

He sways.

“A chair. Can someone get him a chair?” I take him by the arm and sit him down.

“What’s happened to you?” I ask, but Beaulah steps between us as a fine tailored coat with red stitching and gold buttons is slung over Georgie’s shoulders, uncaring of the blood beneath. A garment I know well. The buzz of idle chatter and clinking glasses quiets as an audience of bright eyes and wide smiles swells around Georgie. She helps him stand and the beautiful jacket hides his battered body.

She opens the box and a gold pin gleams inside.

“George Kinsley, Marked son of House of Perl, you’ve earned this distinct honor for valor. Pin number one hundred sixty-three. You join the ranks of one hundred sixty-two others in our great House who’ve been bestowed such an honor. If you receive this honor, say I accept.”

His mother elbows him.

“I accept,” he whispers.

Beaulah presses the valor pin to his coat. The longer he stands there, the more lucid he becomes. His mother dabs her face, teary-eyed, as Beaulah moves on to the next candidate across the room.

“Thank you.” He perks up. “My magic was faster this time, Mom,” he says. “The details are fuzzy, but I just know my magic was way faster. That, I remember.”

“You’re sure you’re alright?” I ask.

“I’ve never been better.” He flexes his bruised fingers, which don’t appear to be hurting him anymore. “Tore right through the earth when they buried me.”

I titter but realize no one else is laughing. “You don’t mean literally…” Guests swirl around us, dancing. Georgie smooshes his brows and turns his wrist, examining a deep gash in his flesh. He absolutely does mean literally.

I swallow a dry breath.

And blink.