I clip the note short in my throat, but pluck at my mandolin a few more times. I open my eyes as the strings’ hums fade.

My brother studies my bedroom. He squints at the graphite tablet in his hands and turns to my nightstand. He takes a step, pauses, and grumbles.

I take off my glasses and set them on my desk. “Did you see anything this time, Mimi?”

He frowns and runs his fingers across the flat slate. “I don't know, Klóe," he mutters. "Maybe it was just a fluke."

I put my mandolin on its stand and rise from my chair. “You’ve been detecting magic since you were my age. You know it's not some fluke.”

Mimi grins at me. Maybe it’s because he’s the youngest of my brothers, but he looks the least like Daddy out of any of them. Mimi has a cleft chin and a slender frame, and his hazel eyes are almost as blue as mine. Still, he and Daddy have the same smile that shows more respect for an eleven-year-old human girl than most folks do.

“I appreciate your vote of confidence, but there’s always space for anomalies when it comes to magic.” He sits on my bed and shakes his head. “There’s not a room in this manor that we haven’t tried. And we couldn’t even reproduce it in the music room again? I’m sorry, Klóe. I didn’t mean to get your hopes up.”

I shrug and sit next to him. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure you’ll be around if it happens again.”

Mimi scratches his close-cut black hair. “I suppose discovering an impositionist after only four years of study is a little much to ask.”

Three light knocks at my door interrupt me. I grant the visitor entry, and our oldest brother opens the door. He holds a white garment bag over his shoulder.

If any of my brothers could be confused with our father, clear-sighted or not, Maximus would be the one. He’s probably heard that he’s the very young image of our father more than I’ve heard the same about me and our mother. They have the same kind of square jaw and broad shoulders, the same warm shade of mahogany in their skin and eyes. They would even have similar hairstyles if it weren’t for Max’s bride.

Max looks downright strange with his hair growing in tight black curls on top of his head, but not the sides or back. I know it’s what Hanna wants for their wedding, but I can’t help but hope he shaves it all back down by the time they return from their matrimonial retreat in the Gems.

Max starts to greet me, but smirks when he sees Mimi. “You’re not using our little sister as an excuse to avoid thinking about dinner, are you, Dimitri?”

Mimi scoffs. He raises the graphite slate. “I thought I heard, or felt, or saw something during Klóe’s music lesson yesterday. We’ve been trying to recreate it, but no--”

Max shakes his head. “No teenager simply chooses to spend their day enjoying the company of a preadolescent sibling.”

I wrinkle my nose and return to my desk.

Mimi mutters, “Not all older siblings are like you, Max.”

“And now that you’re out of your childhood, Dimitri, I am much more willing to expend my advice and assist in your affairs. I’d say that’s a fair trade-off, wouldn’t you?”

Mimi sighs, but says nothing else. Unlike Daddy and Mimi, Max has a way of shutting conversations down. He seems to like it that way, too.

I open my Fourth Era history book to its ribbon and put on my glasses. Through my mirror, I watch Max enter and put a hand on Mimi’s shoulder.

“Relax. Go to your room, read over your notes, and remember: a dinner is a dinner. Just eat, breathe, and talk, and you’ll be fine.”

Mimi pinches his nose and sighs again, but differently. “If you say so.” He stands and, before he enters the hall, says, “We can try again next week, Klóe.”

I nod. “Yes, let’s.”

Once Mimi leaves, Max lets loose a groan of relief. “Well, now that the worry-wart is out of the way,” he slings the garment bag around to his front. “I have a surprise for you.”

I pretend to be more interested in the text than his surprise. It must be my junior bridesmaid dress. I haven’t had the chance to see anyone’s wedding outfit, but I can’t let myself seem too eager now. He might decide to withhold it for his own amusement.

“Oh, yes? What is it?”

Max unzips the garment bag, letting it fall off the dress and onto the rug by my bed. “Ta-da!”

I drape my elbow over the back of my chair and turn to him.

Max twists his hand back and forth to show off the dress. It’s cantaloupe-orange all over, which I suppose is fine. My opinion doesn’t matter enough to the rest of the bridal party to change the color, anyway. The outfit is sensible, from its braided straps to its modest neckline to its slightly bell-shaped hem. The fabric seems just heavy enough to keep me warm for an autumn wedding. The raised, crisscross columns running up and down the front of the torso add a nice texture.

My eyes widen at the silver hoop that joins the backstraps of the dress in a tilted cross. My shoulders and back would be completely exposed.

Max beams. “So, Klóe? What do you think?”

I adjust the squat, rectangular frames on my nose. “It’s a good dress,” I say slowly, “but I’d rather wear something different.”

Max slumps and sighs. “Listen, I know you’re not thrilled about the color choice, but the other girls—”

“The color is fine, Max. Can’t I just... have a different dress style?”

Max looks at the dress, turns it about, and shrugs. “None of the other bridesmaids have a problem with it.”

Ugh. The other bridesmaids have the bodies to support lower necklines on their dresses, too, for all that mattered to me.

“All the other bridesmaids are also twice my age.”

Max wrinkles his forehead. “I thought you appreciated when people think you’re older than you are?”

I cover my face with my hands. I should’ve known not to count on Max to think of my discomfort, let alone my modesty. I don’t want to use Daddy to bully Max, so I try one more plea.

I drop my hands to my lap and tilt my head. “It’ll be cold outside. Can’t I just wear a matching shawl or something to cover up? Please?”

Max groans and looks up at the ceiling. “Is that what you’re going on about?” He lays the dress flat on my bed, then comes over to kneel in front of me. Max looks right into my eyes.

“Klóe, how are you not over being shy about your scars yet?”

I fling my hand across my body and grab my left shoulder before I could stop it. My blouse is still on; it couldn’t have climbed off without my noticing. I press my lips together and glare at Max.

“I don’t know, Maximus. When should I be okay with showing the world the big, ugly teeth marks on my back? When is it fine for a bunch of strangers to see my ragged scars and say, ‘Oh, that poor girl; I wonder what happened to her? We should point and whisper until we find out?’ Well, I don’t want them to guess, I don’t want them to know, I don’t…”

I catch my breath. Max’s worried frown derails my train of thought.

“Klóe, nobody thinks like that.”

I shake my head. I was nearly shouting just a moment ago, but now I can barely whisper. “Do you remember two summers ago, when we all visited Aunt Lucia’s for a week? She held a patio dinner party near the end.”

Max looks off to one side, then chuckles. “Yeah, sure. Angelo flirted with Lorena for half the night.”

Oh, right. Angelo had been more than disappointed when I reminded him that Lorena was our second cousin. I smile at the memory of him leaning across a table with his stupid “signature grin”; then I dispel the thought with a shake of my head. I take a deep breath and continue with confidence.

“I guess Mom and Aunt Lucia must’ve told some of the grown-ups, because I kept catching them staring at me. All night. If I looked one of them in the eye, I’d get the same thing: a small smile, a raised glass or a hand placed over their heart, a finger pointed in my direction to help anyone they were talking with.”

Max frowns, but bobs his head from one side to the other. “Okay, Klóe, but that doesn’t mean—”

“You know how adults talk about children when they think we’re not listening! Do you know how many times I heard ‘oh, that poor thing’ half-whispered from just a few feet away that night? Thrice I turned around to find Mr. Lemwick just nodding along, like it was the first time he’d heard some slightly different version of the worst day of my life. For Mom’s sake, I could barely stand it. At least the other kids had the politeness to ignore me, if they were told about it at all.”

Max had been looking past me to my desk. He straightens up, puzzled. “You remember Aunt Lucia’s accountant’s name?”

I slump over my chair and groan. I stand in front of Max and stomp my foot.

“You don’t get it! It was embarrassing to have all these guests, all these half-strangers, talking around and about me but hardly at all to me. I don’t want to feel like that again, not on what’s supposed to be a joyful event. I want to focus on being happy for you and Hanna, not to have to worry about what people are saying behind or about my back. The less they see of it, the better.”

Max lifts one hand to stop me. “I understand, I understand.” He sighs and rubs the knuckle of his index finger against the soft part of his jaw. “Maybe I can talk Hanna into agreeing to some sort of undershirt. A shawl could—”

Two solid, almost slow knocks on my open door interrupt him. Max and I both look over to the doorway.