"Get off the balcony. You'll freeze," Bellatrix ordered as she threw a blanket over Riven. "You say that every winter," Riven said, folding her hands on her lap and not moving. The blanket swallowed her thin shoulders. Frost feathered the iron railing. London spread below, ordinary and distant, lights not quite like stars. "Because you refuse to move until you turn into a monument," Bellatrix snapped. She leaned on the railing beside Riven, breath fogging. The black-mark coil at her wrist curled once and went still like a cat checking its claws. "You couldn't survive a monument," Riven replied. Her voice was quiet. It always was quiet; it pressed without raising volume. "Watch me," Bellatrix said. She tossed a scarlet scarf at Riven. "Answer me: who told you that line about the stars being out of place? You steal poetry from Muggle televised dramas now?" Riven let the scarf fall. "I read textbooks," she said. "And I read star charts." "You read star charts in this attic?" Bellatrix's laugh was a bark that softened. "Lumbartons never socialize with telescopes. We socialize with trophies and old grudges." "You socialize with murdering competitors and calling it dinner conversation," Riven said. She said it like a fact. "That was one dinner." Bellatrix's mouth curved. "You keep throwing me those little cuts and thinking I will start apologizing." "You apologize when you mean it," Riven said. "Most people don't." Bellatrix stared at her. "You mean you're not