Two days?
“What?” I said, aghast. “What day is it?”
“Sunday.” He grimaced. “We didn’t get back until nearly three in the morning on Friday. You passed out in the foyer, so I carried you to the car. You were dead weight.”
I scowled at the smirk on his face, but he ignored me.
“I wasn’t nearly as inebriated as you were, so I drove us back. And before you make any nefarious assumptions, I slept on the couch,” he added, nodding toward the sofa.
I groaned again. “I’m never going to another party.”
“I can see now why you avoid them,” he agreed, fighting back a grin. “Let’s see…” He began tallying on his fingers. “You were assaulted by Monty Prescott, confronted by your ex, attacked by a Daemon, and then drank poisoned wine. Did I miss anything?”
“I didn’t drink the wine. Zhara forced it down my throat,” I growled.
“Is she the one who punched you, then?” He sighed and reached out to graze a knuckle along a bruise blooming along my jaw. “I suppose I’ll add her to the list.”
“What list?”
“The list of people I now have to kill.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re not going to kill anyone.”
“Who says I haven’t already?”
I frowned up at him. “You wouldn’t.”
He gave me a roguish grin in reply.
Deciding to table the murder conversation for now, I asked, “What did the Order want last night, anyway?”
The smile slid from his face. “Devereaux came to me with a…proposal. I refused him, of course.”
The vagueness of his reply struck me as evasive. “Are you going to tell me what he offered you?”
“No. But you should know that Devereaux is looking for theBook of Erebos, so you’ll need to keep it hidden well. Don’t just stash it in your dormitory.”
“Obviously,” I said, as if the Book in question wasn’t stowed under my mattress at this very moment. “Why don’t you want to tell me what Devereaux offered you?”
“Because it doesn’t concern you,” he replied, his jaw tight.
My eyes narrowed in suspicion.
More lies. More evasions.
His expression grew serious. “Devereaux called you ‘Arden Farrow.’”
I stared at him. “So what?”
“Does anyone else at Ouverham—apart from me—know your true name?”
My eyes narrowed. This was not the first time he’d mentioned the importance of names. “I’ll tell you after you explain why it matters.”
Casimir pinned me with a sharp look. “Tell me who knows,” he enunciated each word with cold intensity.
I huffed in exasperation. “Fine! August knows my real name. And Gwen, of course.”
He nodded pensively. “No one else?”