"Are you sure you want to keep working on Arithmancy? You could go read some Latin . . ."

"I don't need to study for Latin."

"Read it for entertainment, then."

Loki glances up at Draco, silently shakes his head, and stares back at the Arithmancy proof he's been trying to untangle for the past two hours.

All of Weston is currently entrenched in midterm season, and the three roommates have strewn their living room with study materials. Half-finished potions simmer and steam on Draco's desk, a foot-long Elvish scroll scrawled with annotations stretches unfurled across Loki's, and stacks of fat Latin dictionaries and grammar guides lie on Ciel's mattress, which he has left pulled out all day. "If I must subject myself to this torture," he announced, "I will at least laze on down pillows while doing so."

Loki in particular flings himself into his studying. He works to dawn, cranking out essays feet longer than required, slaving through translations and problem sets, switching from green tea to black tea to coffee simply for the caffeine. As the circles under Loki's eyes deepen, Draco and Ciel exchange frowns behind his back.

Just moments before curfew strikes, Ciel dashes into the room, bringing three tall coffee cups and a perilously tall stack of Anteiku pastry boxes. Draco throws down his Arithmancy notes, rushes towards him, and plucks out his own cup, leaving Ciel to deal with the rest of the items. He takes a full gulp, only to grimace. "What sort of poison is this?"

"Herbal tea. You need to quit drinking espresso at midnight." As Draco starts to protest, Ciel tilts his head at Loki. "Both of you."

Draco scowls but falls silent.

Loki arranges his own notes in a neat pile and then rises to take his own cup. "Ciel, how did you even obtain such a spread this late? Didn't Anteiku close before you even left the room?"

"I have my ways," Ciel answers, cheeks suddenly red. "He also threw in breakfast for tomorrow, so we don't have to bother with the cafeteria."

"He?" Draco raises his eyebrows.

"They," Ciel corrects. "Well, it was a 'he'— a young man— who actually made the coffee and the pastries."

"There was no need to bring all this for me," Loki murmurs as Ciel hands him a box of pastries.

"Well, I did it anyway." Ciel shrugs. "I got you one of their new items. It reminded me of you."

Loki opens the box to find . . .

"A princess cake," Draco whispers. "I loved those when I was small."

"How is this like me?"

"Well, it's pure green," Ciel snorts, "your trademark color, as our suite's walls sadly prove. The shell is perfectly smooth and blank— like the poised expression you so serenely wear. Inside, there's some fluff, sure, but also true substance, layers of sponge cake alternated with heavy cream. On top, I see a pink flower, just a touch of elegance . . . And of course there's the fact that the coating is marzipan, and I'm allergic to almonds."

Draco rolls his eyes. "You were so close to saying something nice."

"I know," he grimaces. "Fortunately, I averted that crisis."

Loki accepts the cake from Ciel with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Finally!" Ciel gives a downright villainous cackle when he receives his morning mail. "My butler has advanced the case— Elsa is considered the top candidate for a prophecy concerning two soulmates, kept at Level 6 confidentiality."

"So what does it say?" Draco pipes up.

"I still don't know. He managed to, er, secure a copy of a memory of the soothsayer's original pronouncement."

"Secure?" Loki raises an eyebrow. "Is there any chance that's legal?"

"Not exactly, and he's been . . . detained as a result." Ciel frowns as he considers the memory, contained in white strands suspended within a vial. "He didn't have a chance to examine it himself."

"You shouldn't use the official school Pensives to view it," Loki says. "They have far too many surveillance wards nowadays . . ."

"True, so what the hell do I do now?" Ciel groans.

"I am a master alchemist, you know." Draco smirks. "I can hack a Pensive together, no problem."

That night, Draco drops his head onto a book and moans, "I hate everything."

"You said you'd have no trouble making a Pensive," Loki teases. "I thought you'd have it done it a day at the most."

"So did I, but I've never seen a more incorrigible recipe list! Two ingredients are banned internationally, a few of the others are expensive enough to bankrupt a small country, and one of them is made from a now extinct plant species."

"That . . . actually does sound impossible."

"I'll have it brewed in a few weeks."

"Naturally."

"Through sheer brilliance, I have compiled a list of possible substitute ingredients," Draco announces, "I can obtain most of the ingredients from the Potions cabinet, but I need help on a few."

"Ask away," says Loki.

"I need a mushroom with a red-and-white spotted cap."

"There's a brick in the dungeons that produces them if you hit it with your head," Ciel says. "And I'll wear a helmet this time . . ."

"I need a blue ribbon inscribed with a Dark Elf incantation."

"Provide me the text, and I'll copy it at once," Loki says.

"I need precisely one pound of human flesh."

"Done," Ciel replies far too quickly.

"I need a cask of Amontillado."

"Er."

"Um."

"Well, we could always . . . No, we couldn't."

After a half hour of failed plotting, Draco moans. "It's practically impossible to get alcohol onto campus without a pre-existing distribution system. I don't know how to pull this one off."

"My butler might have had a chance," Ciel sighs, "yet he is not currently free to act, and I don't want any of my other servants poking around the wine cellar . . ."

"Thor said the fraternities manage to hoard fine liquors, despite a host of school rules," Loki says. "I don't suppose anyone we know goes to fraternity parties?"

Ciel raises his eyebrows, and Draco flat-out laughs.

One evening several days later, the magpie taps the window. It holds a shimmering gold-plated scroll— an invitation to a party held at a fraternity on the night of the second Family Friday.

Fortunately, both the Odinson and Malfoy families decide to skip this one.