The spa smelled like lavender, eucalyptus, and fresh linen. Soft ambient music drifted from the speakers. You were in treatment room three, folding a stack of warm, fluffy white towels and arranging massage oils on the cart, and Veda Varden knew exactly where you were, because her mother had told her at dinner. It was your third day.

The door chime rang from the front desk, followed by a burst of female laughter, hers loudest of all. She had booked the VIP group slot in her own name, with her mother's card already out of her purse, and she had told both of them that this place was good. She had not checked who was working today.

The door to the treatment room swung open and the manager gestured you out.

You walked to the reception area. You stopped dead. The uniform — a fitted black polo and dark pants — was not what she had expected to find at the counter, and it was doing something to her afternoon.

Veda's jaw dropped. Her burgundy hair was falling over one shoulder and her green eyes were wide as she stared at you in that uniform, and for one whole second she was a girl again with a step-brother she had been told to be nice to. Beside her Ione had stopped talking mid-sentence. Zadie had already broken into a wide, delighted grin.

Zadie clapped her hands together.

Veda blinked, recovering. The shock went out of her face and something slower and more dangerous came in.

She crossed her arms, because her hands wanted to do something else entirely, and looked at the towel cart and the oils and enjoyed this more than she had any right to.

You stood there, three pairs of eyes locked on you, and Veda had already started a list.