I catalog every exit in the room.
The lobby of the Silverleaf Country Club is an exercise in architectural intimidation. Vaulted ceilings held aloft by living oak columns, bark still intact, leaves sprouting from the capitals in precise seasonal arrangements. The floor is white quartz veined with actual silver. Enchanted chandeliers hover six inches below the ceiling beams, their wisp-lights calibrated to cast everyone beneath them in the most flattering possible glow.
Everyone human, at least. The wisps recalibrate when I step beneath them, flickering from warm gold to a confused blue-white that deepens every shadow on my face. The scars on my jaw go from faint lines to dark trenches. My broken tusk catches the light and throws it sideways.
Fourteen people in the lobby. Six turn to look. Then eight. Then all fourteen.
I keep walking.
The reception desk spans the far wall, a sweeping curve of polished silverwood staffed by a single Elf in a cream blazer. Her smile is locked into place like a mounted weapon. Her eyes trackour approach the way a sniper tracks movement across an open field.
Magnolia releases my arm. She steps up to the desk, squares her shoulders, and pulls a folded confirmation letter from her clutch purse. The paper is slightly crumpled from the gas station stop. She smooths it against the silverwood and slides it forward.
"Magnolia Jenkins. Checking in for the Hargrove-Chen wedding party."
The receptionist's gaze moves from Magnolia to me. Lingers. Returns to Magnolia. Her fingers tap across a crystal registry embedded in the desktop, each keystroke producing a tiny chime.
"Jenkins. Jenkins." A pause calibrated for maximum discomfort. "Ah. Here we are."
She pulls a brass key from beneath the counter. Not a ward-key. Not an enchanted access crystal. A physical brass key, green at the edges, attached to a wooden tag with a room number scratched into it by hand.
"The Foxglove Room. Third floor, east wing, end of the hall."
Magnolia picks up the key and turns it over. The wooden tag reads 3-E-14.
"I booked a standard suite. My confirmation says standard suite."
"The Foxglove Room is standard."
"I've stayed here before. Standard suites are in the west wing."
The receptionist's smile does not change shape, dimension, or warmth. It maintains its position with the rigid discipline of a fortified wall. "The west wing suites have been reallocated for the primary wedding party. Your reservation was adjusted. You'll find the Foxglove Room perfectly adequate for your needs."
Translation: someone moved her.
I catalog this. File it under THREAT ASSESSMENT, SOCIAL, SUBCATEGORY: DELIBERATE.
"Adjusted by who?"
"The bride's family coordinated all room assignments."
Magnolia's jaw tightens. A muscle jumps beneath her left ear. "My sister is the bride."
"Then I'm sure the arrangement was made with your comfort in mind."
"What exactly is in the Foxglove Room?"
The receptionist consults her crystal display with theatrical slowness. "One twin bed. A writing desk. A washroom with a standing shower. Complimentary foxglove sachets in the dresser drawers." A beat. "It's our most intimate accommodation."
"Intimate."
"Cozy."
"How big is the bed?"
"Twin."
"How big is the room?"
