"They want to meet you."
Caeden was the first to move. His brows rose, the barest arch above eyes steady as stone. The great slab of a boy had barely spoken, but now his voice rumbled low, even.
"They?"
Lucavion flashed his teeth in a grin that was half mischief, half deflection. "Yes. They. A whole delightful collection of bright-eyed, eager young prodigies—waiting to expand their social horizons."
Mireilla's eyes narrowed, suspicion sharp enough to cut. "How do you know them?"
Lucavion pressed a hand to his chest like she'd just accused him of murder. "How do I know them? Mireilla, please. I'm a very social person. It's a burden, really."
"That," she muttered, "I don't doubt."
"Nor do I," Elayne said flatly, arms still folded.
