*
“What do you think about carrying a switchblade?” Morgana asked over the table. I froze with a forked sausage dangling in my hands, my mouth already open for a bite. She seemed so casual as she asked, sprinkling some pepper on her scrambled eggs and staring at her fingers.
“Excuse me?”
“A switchblade,” she enunciated. “It’s a little pocketknife that you can carry around with you everywhere. No one will know about it, and I will feel better knowing that you at least have something to protect yourself with.”
“What could I possibly defend myself from with a pocketknife?” I asked sarcastically. “The probability of me getting mugged is very low since I never really leave the house.”
“But you will be participating in this God-awful tournament, won’t you?” she said, pointing her fork at
