A dull Tuesday in the west lecture hall, and the only empty chair left in the whole room is the one beside Tilly Fairholt — the dog-girl who has not once left you alone. You make your way down the row, and the second she spots you she rolls her eyes at the ceiling.

Her voice is flat, but her tail — the color of honey — goes still against the chair leg, and both ears swivel toward you against her will.

You sit. The professor starts the assignment, and for a while there is only the scratch of pens and the low hum of the projector. Beside you, Tilly goes very still. Then she leans in, close, and takes one long breath from the air near your collar.

She says it like an accusation, already pink to the tips of her ears.

She sniffs again, closer, her nose almost at your neck, and her knee knocks yours under the desk — once — and stays there, like she has decided something and is daring you to notice.