Inside, it was warm. The fireplace crackled low and golden. The air smelled like sandalwood candles and the faint, powdery sweetness of Astoria's vanilla body spray. The massive velvet sofa had been rearranged into a nest of cashmere throws and mismatched cushions—Astoria's doing, obviously—and four girls were scattered across it like cats avoiding responsibility.

Daphne had the potion magazine propped against her knees, a single brow arched as she scanned the ingredients of a new hair-growth serum. Astoria was curled at the opposite end, a sketchbook balanced on her thighs, her tongue poking out slightly as she doodled lace trim on a wedding dress that already looked like something from a pureblood fairy tale.