Hundreds of candles, fake but beautiful, line the bookshelves and railings, the perimeter of the floor and the tops of the cocktail tables. Flower arrangements in deep oranges and rich greens fill dozens of vases. Ivy wraps around the staircase railings, and dark-purple orchids decorate the hot-cider stations. Burgundy linens and silver goblets adorn the tables.
The ball is gorgeous every year, but this year I’m especially taken with it.
The Harvest Ball is our way of thanking autumn for its many gifts, thanking the Sun for taking us with her for another season. This was a particularly brutal season, but we still show thanks.
On a gold stand in the corner of the room is a picture of Mr. Hart. Ivy drapes over the top of the frame, and candlelight flickers off the canvas. I miss him and wish he could see that I’m trying, even when all I want to do is give up. Mr. Hart’s belief in me is the only thing that keeps me showing up to my training sessions with Sang. We’ve only been training together a few weeks, always working on the same drill, but we’re finding our rhythm. And I’m giving it my all. I owe at least that much to Mr. Hart.
“Thank you for the book,” I whisper.
I’m so sorry. Those are the words I can’t get out, so instead I play them over and over in my head.
I’m so sorry.
So sorry.
I look at his picture for a long time and turn away only when it becomes hard to breathe.
I walk the perimeter of the library. A large table full of harvested fruits lines the side of the room. Bowls of apples and pears, figs and persimmons sit on a bed of dried leaves. Twinkle lights weave through the arrangement.
It occurs to me that in years past, a botanist has done our floral arrangements, and I turn to look for Sang in the crowd. But he’s already walking toward me, and before he has a chance to speak, I say, “You didn’t do the floral arrangements, did you?”
“That depends. Do you like them?”
“I love them. The ivy down the stairs, the orchids, the fruit. It’s all gorgeous.”
“Thanks,” he says, following my eyes around the room. “But the flowers do all the work.” He smiles, momentarily lost in thought, then looks at me. “I want to show you something.”
I follow Sang to a nearby cocktail table. He pulls an arrangement closer to us, and the gold in his eyes seems to shimmer as he looks at the flowers. The edge of his hand is smudged with faint yellow paint.
“See this flower?” He points to a bright-orange one with big petals and white stripes down the middle. I nod. “This is called a sleeping orange. Nobody uses it in arrangements because the bud stays closed and the stem has all these microthorns on it.” He pulls the flower out a little, and I look closely at the stem.
“See how it looks like there’s fuzz on it? Those are tiny thorns—hundreds of them—so this poor flower is forgotten about, cast aside as unfit. But if you soak the flower in water and honey the night before, the thorns break down just enough to feel soft. Touch it.”
I reach my hand out and touch the stem with my finger. Sure enough, the tiny thorns are soft.
“And only then does the flower bloom.”
“Incredible,” I say.
“They really are. And while most people aren’t willing to put in the work to get the payoff, I can’t imagine a better use of my time. Why are we expected to show our most vulnerable selves to the world, anyway?”
Sang strokes one of the petals, then pushes the flower back into the arrangement.
His honesty mystifies me, and I study him like he’s a subject I don’t understand. He practically is.
Sang’s cheeks turn a deep shade of red. He coughs, and an awkward laugh comes out. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m not sure why I said all of that.”
I look at the orange flower and wonder what it would feel like to trust someone so much that I’d let them see my hidden parts. I used to have that with Paige and Nikki, the kind of trust that never felt like work. The kind that was as natural as sunlight in summer. Sometimes I don’t think I’m capable of it anymore. And even if I were, it wouldn’t be safe. My magic would always know.
It’s too hot in here, and I look away from Sang. My eyes find Paige’s in the crowd of people, and she looks from me to Sang and back again. I can’t be in here anymore—too many people, too many memories, too many questions.
“I need some fresh air,” I say.
Cold hits me when I exit the library, and the moon illuminates the bench where I sit. Ever since Nikki died, I’ve perfected the art of never opening up, never letting anyone in. But something about Sang makes it harder for me. I’m not used to his kind of openness, and I don’t like it. I don’t trust it.
Someone sits down next to me, and I try to come up with an excuse to ditch Sang again, but when I turn my head, it isn’t him sitting next to me. It’s Paige.
Her light-blue eyes catch mine, her long blond hair reflecting the moonlight.
She is the one person who knows everything about me, all my back alleys and dark closets where no one else has ever looked.
And I know hers.
She was my summer fling last year, but calling it a fling isn’t fair to what we had. We were best friends first. She somehow climbed over all my walls and broke
