“This kind of behavior will not be tolerated, Miss Jones.”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am.”

“Students are absolutely not allowed outside after sundown without proper escort.”

“I’m so terribly sorry.”

“It was incredibly irresponsible of you. I had to summon half the staff to help search for you. From their suppers, I might add.”

“I never meant to—I only nodded off in the gardens, I swear. I fell asleep.”

“So you’ve said already. Twice. Are you ill, Miss Jones?”

“No, ma’am.”

“A sound sleeper, is that it?”

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, I suppose so. I am sorry.”

“I really must think you have no notion of the world in the least, Miss Jones. A child like you should know better than to trust the night. There are dangers beyond these walls–yes, even out here. It is my responsibility to ensure that every girl here remains safe, remains healthy, remains untouched… .”

“Yes, ma’am. Are … are you all right, ma’am?”

“I am perfectly well, Miss Jones. A touch of the catarrh, perhaps. Ahem. The duke is holding a celebration Saturday next to honor the birthday of his son. It is an Idylling tradition, and the tenth- and eleventh-year girls are invited every year. I am tempted—sorely tempted—to exclude you as punishment.”

“Oh?”

“But as the duke has specifically requested your presence, and since this is, after all, your first offense, I shall not.”

“Oh.”

“Perhaps he wishes you to play again. We’ll see.”

“Oh.”

“That will be all for now, Miss Jones. Tomorrow we will discuss a proper punishment for your transgression. You may retire to your room now, as it seems you are in such critical need of slumber.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Good night.”

“Good night.”

...

I shall not wander the school grounds alone at night.

I shall not wander the school grounds alone at night.

I shall not wander the school grounds alone at night.

I shall not wander the school grounds alone at night.

I shall not wander the school grounds alone at night.

I shall not wander the school grounds alone at night.

I shall not wander the school grounds alone at night.

I shall not wander the school grounds alone at night.

x 100.

...

Days of rain. Days and days of rain, and nights, too.

It put the castle out of sorts. It forced everyone indoors all the time, not just the spun-sugar girls but the maids and menservants and teachers and everyone.

The only people I ever glimpsed mud-spattered from the weather were Hastings and Jesse, who drove the Iverson wagons on and off the island, because the food had to come from somewhere. Should the rains never cease and the fish flee and the sea rise to flood the earth, we’d have nothing but soggy herbs from the kitchen garden to sustain us. It was a tad too easy to imagine my fellow students resorting to cannibalism—they definitely appeared the type—but it seemed to me a dire prospect. I had no doubt most of my classmates would taste like vinegar.

Naturally, preparation for the duke’s party consumed them. Even the girls too young to attend gossiped and sighed over the notion of dancing in Armand’s arms, and bickered over which of them would make the best sweetheart. Sophia and her band of merrymakers, who were attending, pretended they had much better things to do than worry about one single, provincial little party, even if it was being hosted by a duke. But it was all they talked about, anyway, outside class.

Outside class, I sat alone and dreamed of anything but the party.

Outside class, I sat and dreamed of the coming night.

At night, every night, I was no longer alone. Whatever time we could spare, whether it was hours or just minutes, Jesse and I met in the grotto, and we practiced my Becoming.

That was how I had begun to think of it privately. Becoming, capitalized. I still wasn’t certain what I was Becoming. I tried to hold on to the image of a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. That seemed safe enough.

I’d never seen any picture of a dragon, however, that looked anything like a butterfly. Less wings; rather more teeth.

The small, sleepy hours of early Saturday morning found us seated, as we usually were, on the upper slope of the grotto’s embankment. We had blankets and food and water—no wine—and the soft, antiqued light of Jesse’s lantern bathing us in amber. I endeavored with my entire heart not to think of these stolen moments as anything romantic. Jesse was not courting me. He was not wooing me, certainly not as I’d heard boys usually did, sending girls posies or poems or buying them sweets or taking them to the theatre. He didn’t attempt to kiss me even once.

We met like this because he was teaching me to Become. And yet every night I sat there opposite him on the blankets and looked at his attentive, handsome face and I thought, This is our wooing. This is our Becoming.

I’d had no luck with going to smoke again. During school I tried so hard to stay … as myself. But later on, down beneath the castle, when I did try to dissolve, it simply didn’t happen.

There were times when I felt ready to burst. My skin felt shrunken, my heart hammered in my chest. I was so close. I willed myself back to that moment at the brink of the roof; I willed the fiend back inside me; I willed the voice to come to life …

 … and, nothing.

The tide came in. The tide went out. Nights alone with Jesse in this haunted, sparkling cave, and all I had to show for it were dark smudges under my eyes and a constant chill I couldn’t seem to shake, even during daylight.

I didn’t ever speak the words aloud, but it wasn’t going to happen, I knew. And I couldn’t blame it on the weather, or the stars, or my uncertain age. Deep down, what prevented the Becoming was purely me.

Because, deep down, I was afraid.

It was selfish and cowardly and low, I admit it. Certainly there were people beyond my cloistered world who were suffering far worse terrors than my own. The Tommies forced to live and die in mud trenches, for example, or the townsfolk trapped beneath the deadly zeppelins—I had smelled them burning; the most craven part of my soul thanked the heavens I could not hear the screams. But Jesse had said pain.

The pain of the war seemed far from me, but the promise of my own was as near as a sword dangling over my head.

And I was afraid. Sincerely.

“Let’s try something new,” he said now. We spoke in undertones, even though there was no real chance anyone above us would overhear. No matter how careful we were, however, the grotto took our words and sighed them back at us.

… new-new-new …

“Like what?” I asked.

“Anything else. Obviously, concentrating as you’ve been isn’t helpful. So let’s not think about the specifics of what we hope for. Smoke or anything like that.”

I sat back on my hands. “Fine with me.”

He had walked from the woods tonight, I could tell. The fresh, dark scent of the night still clung to him, and his boots were damp, with bits of grass and leaves flecking the leather.

Jesse reached down and peeled free a small, perfectly oval spring leaf from near his ankle, holding it up by its stem.

“I’ll tell you a story instead,” he said, gazing at the leaf.

“Tell me about the ghost. Who was she?”

“Ah, the ghost. Her name was Rose.”

“Was she one of the builders?”

He twirled the leaf between his fingers, back and forth. “No.”

“One of the students?” I shivered. “That’s it, isn’t it? She was a student.”

“It’s not my story to tell you. I’m sorry. It belongs to someone else.”

“Don’t you know?”

“I do know. But I have in mind a different tale entirely.”

Without warning, his hand glowed bright. The little leaf was engulfed in a globe of brilliance; the cavern flamed to life, all the sparkles on the walls transformed into countless flashing suns. I lifted an arm to cover my eyes–then the light was gone.

When I looked at him again, Jesse was looking back at me, his jaw set and face masked with shadows. The leaf was exactly as before but now, of course, solid gold. He offered it to me, unsmiling.

“Once upon an age—”

“Can you do that with anything?” I cut in.

“No.” Since I hadn’t taken the leaf, he placed it on the blanket between us. “Only living things. Nothing inanimate.”

“That’s why it’s flowers,” I said, realizing. “You transform flowers and plants, like the brooch and my cuff. But could you do it to—”

“Yes. But I won’t. Life is precious, Lora. All life is precious, even roses. Even frogs, or snails, or the lowest of crawling things. I have no desire to be the arbiter of life or death over others, despite this gift of alchemy. Perhaps because of it. Transmuting the living into gold destroys it, even as it preserves its physical shape.”

My mind raced. “What about a tree? Could you transmute a tree?”

“Yes.”

I sat up straighter. “You could be rich. You could be richer than the king, if you liked. My God, Jesse. You could have a whole forest of gold! You could have anything.”

… anything-anything-anything …

“Rich is a matter of perspective. I think my life is rich enough. And I have already”—he gave me a significant look—”nearly all that I want.”

“But you could also have a mansion. And servants of your own. A cook! And motorcars and chauffeurs and a telephone and—”