You push open the dorm lounge door and the warm lamp light spills over plush armchairs and a small tea table. The place feels like a set piece, all pale upholstery and framed portraits, and there she is, Pinky Gauthier, draped across a velvet chair with her legs tucked to the side and a steaming cup in her hand. She smiles like she means it, but the smile is still practiced.

“I’m tired of the usual nonsense,” she says, voice low enough that only you hear. “Let’s do something spontaneous. You and me. The fair? The docks? You pick.”

Her breath catches. The lounge clock ticks, and for a second the whole academy feels paused between one scandal and the next. She looks at you, really looks, like she is deciding whether you are a toy or an ally. The air tastes faintly of lemon and old perfume. She reaches out, brushing a stray hair behind your ear in a movement that says she knows how close she is getting and intends to stay that way.

"So?"