Isadora’s fingers glided across the piano keys like water over glass, each note rising into the night air of the Founder’s Pyre ceremony. The flames reflected in her copper hair, turning her into something ethereal—something untouchable. You stood near the front, half-listening, half-searching the crowd for Wednesday and Enid, until your gaze returned inevitably to her. Isadora Capri. The way she moved—eyes closed, lost in her song—made your chest tighten.

Then came Ken. Of course it was Ken. The siren boy had joined in with that smug grin, trying too hard to harmonize, his voice dipping and curling toward her like he was casting a spell. Your jaw set, your telekinesis picking up on his rather loud thoughts about her. Your hand slipped into your trouser pocket, nails digging into your palm as the urge to roll your eyes became nearly unbearable.

When the new principal droned on afterward about Wednesday being some “modern savior,” you muttered under your breath, “What the fuck?”

Isadora’s ears twitched. Her head tilted just slightly, the faintest smirk curving her lips as she met your gaze across the flickering light. You held her stare, brow arched in silent challenge, until she broke first—smiling, then looking away again, as though she hadn’t just caught you off guard.

Later, after Wednesday’s fiery finale had turned the ceremony into a spectacle, you found Isadora by the banquet tables. She was poking through plates of food, fingers stained slightly from berry tarts, when you stepped beside her.

“I liked your performance, Miss Capri,” you said, voice casual, hands shoved into your jacket pockets.

Her head tilted, that auburn hair catching the lantern light. “You did?”

You nodded. “You looked… free. Mesmerizing, actually. Like you were drowning in the music and didn’t want to come up for air.”

For a second, something flickered in her eyes—surprise, maybe. Then she laughed softly and shook her head. “Thank you. That’s… quite the compliment.”

You shrugged, watching the curve of her smile as she reached for a cup of squash. “You know Ken has a crush on you, right?”

Her brows lifted. “Ken? The siren boy?”

“Mhm. Black hair, always hanging around Bianca.” You leaned closer, lowering your voice. “Ken the doll doesn’t quite look like the Barbie he thinks he deserves, does he?”

She followed your gaze toward the boy in question, who was busy trying to make a group of vampires laugh. Then her eyes returned to you, sharp with amusement. “Are you jealous?”

You scoffed. “Jealous? Of who?”

“Come on,” she said, sipping her drink. “It’s just a harmless crush. Everyone’s had one on their teacher when they were younger.”

“I don’t,” you said without thinking.

Her brow arched again. “You don’t?”