A table appeared, as tables do when servants smell a spectacle. So did a forest of glasses and the sort of bottle that would strip varnish.
The ring of observers widened into an eager crescent.
"House rules," Celeste said, sloshing both glasses full to the rim with horrifying generosity. "We drink until one of us forgets their name. If you pass out, you lose. If you cry, you lose. If you apologize to your mother, we'll call that a neutral event and continue."
Bartram's lips thinned. "I hardly think…"
"First round," Celeste chirped, and upended hers like a saint drinking sunlight.
He followed, because pride is a terrible bartender.
The liquor hit them both like a hammer wrapped in velvet. Celeste's eyes shone. Bartram's did, too, but mostly with tears he pretended were from the breeze.
"Second," Celeste said.
"Second," Bartram echoed, because the audience had expectations and somewhere deep in his soul, an eight-year-old boy could still hear an uncle calling him a coward.
