Katya flounced down on the bed, the silken folds of her nightgown tracing her graceful curves, its low back revealing so much perfect skin. It made Laurel feel plain in her cotton tank top and skirt, and inspired a fleeting wish that she hadn’t brought Tamani upstairs. But she brushed the thought aside and joined her friend. Katya prattled on about inconsequential things that had happened in the Academy since Laurel’s departure only last month, and Laurel smiled. Just over a year ago, she wouldn’t have believed that the daunting, unfamiliar Academy was somewhere she might laugh and talk with a friend. But then, she had felt the same way about public school the year before that.
Things change, she told herself. Including me.
Katya sobered suddenly and reached out to place her fingertips on each side of Laurel’s face. “You look happy again,” Katya said.
“Do I?” Laurel asked.
Katya nodded. “Don’t mistake me,” she said in that formal way Katya had, “it was lovely to have you here this summer, but you were sad.” She paused. “I didn’t want to pry. But you’re happy again. I’m glad.”
Laurel was silent—surprised. Had she been sad? She ventured a glance at Tamani, but he didn’t seem to be listening.
A sharp rap sounded at the door and Laurel jumped off her bed and hurried to open it. There stood Yeardley, tall and imposing, wearing only a loose pair of drawstring breeches. His arms were folded across his bare chest and, as usual, he wasn’t wearing shoes.
“Laurel, you asked for me?” His tone was stern, but there was warmth in his eyes. After two summers of working together he seemed to have grown a soft spot for her. Not that you could tell by the amount of class work he gave her. He was—above all else—a demanding tutor.
“Yes,” Laurel answered quickly. “Please come in.”
Yeardley walked to the center of the room and Laurel began to shut the door.
“Do you need me to leave?” Katya asked quietly.
Laurel looked down at her friend. “No . . . no, I don’t think so,” Laurel said, glancing at Tamani. “It’s really not a secret; not here, anyway.”
Tamani met her eyes. There was tension in his face, and Laurel half expected him to contradict her, but after a moment he looked away and shrugged. She turned back to Yeardley.
“I need a way to test a faerie’s, um, season.” Laurel would not use the word caste. Not in front of Tamani. Preferably not ever.
“Male or female?”
“Female.”
Yeardley shrugged, nonchalant. “Watch for her blossom. Or for pollen production on males in the vicinity.”
“What about a faerie who hasn’t blossomed yet?”
“You can go to the records room—it’s just downstairs—and look her up.”
“Not here,” Laurel said. “In California.”
Yeardley’s eyes narrowed. “A faerie in the human world? Besides yourself, and your entourage?”
Laurel nodded.
“Unseelie?”
The Unseelie were still a mystery to Laurel. No one would talk about them directly, but she had gathered from bits and pieces that they all lived in an isolated community outside one of the gates. “I don’t think so. But there is some . . . confusion regarding her history, so we can’t be sure.”
“And she doesn’t know what season she is?”
Laurel hesitated. “If she does, it’s not something I can ask her.”
Comprehension dawned on Yeardley’s face. “Ah, I see.” He sighed and pressed his fingers against his lips, contemplating. “I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone ask for such a thing. Have you, Katya?”
When Katya shook her head, Yeardley continued. “We keep meticulous records of every seedling in Avalon, so this problem presents a unique challenge. But there must be something. Perhaps you could formulate a potion of your own?”
“Am I ready for that?” Laurel asked hopefully.
“Almost certainly not,” Yeardley said in his most matter-of-fact tone. “But practice needn’t always lead to success, after all. I think it would be good for you to begin learning the basic concepts of fabrication. And this seems a fine place to start. An identification powder, like Cyoan,” he said, referencing a simple powder that identified humans and non-humans. “Except you would have to figure out what separates the castes on a cellular level, and I’m unaware of much research in that area. It simply doesn’t lead anywhere.”
“What about thylakoid membranes?” Katya asked softly. As one, they all turned to face her.
“What was that?” Yeardley asked.
“Thylakoid membranes,” Katya continued, a little louder this time. “In the chloroplasm. The thylakoid membranes of Sparklers are more efficient. For lighting their illusions.”
Yeardley cocked his head to the side. “Really?”
Katya nodded. “When I was younger we sometimes stole the phosphorescing serums for the lamps and . . . um . . . drank them. It would make us glow in the dark,” she said, lowering her lashes as she related the childish antic. “I . . . had a Summer friend, and she did it with us one day. But instead of glowing for one night, she glowed for three days. It took me years to figure out why.”
“Excellent, Katya,” Yeardley said, a distinct note of pleasure in his voice. “I would like to discuss that more fully with you in the classroom sometime this week.”
Things change, she told herself. Including me.
Katya sobered suddenly and reached out to place her fingertips on each side of Laurel’s face. “You look happy again,” Katya said.
“Do I?” Laurel asked.
Katya nodded. “Don’t mistake me,” she said in that formal way Katya had, “it was lovely to have you here this summer, but you were sad.” She paused. “I didn’t want to pry. But you’re happy again. I’m glad.”
Laurel was silent—surprised. Had she been sad? She ventured a glance at Tamani, but he didn’t seem to be listening.
A sharp rap sounded at the door and Laurel jumped off her bed and hurried to open it. There stood Yeardley, tall and imposing, wearing only a loose pair of drawstring breeches. His arms were folded across his bare chest and, as usual, he wasn’t wearing shoes.
“Laurel, you asked for me?” His tone was stern, but there was warmth in his eyes. After two summers of working together he seemed to have grown a soft spot for her. Not that you could tell by the amount of class work he gave her. He was—above all else—a demanding tutor.
“Yes,” Laurel answered quickly. “Please come in.”
Yeardley walked to the center of the room and Laurel began to shut the door.
“Do you need me to leave?” Katya asked quietly.
Laurel looked down at her friend. “No . . . no, I don’t think so,” Laurel said, glancing at Tamani. “It’s really not a secret; not here, anyway.”
Tamani met her eyes. There was tension in his face, and Laurel half expected him to contradict her, but after a moment he looked away and shrugged. She turned back to Yeardley.
“I need a way to test a faerie’s, um, season.” Laurel would not use the word caste. Not in front of Tamani. Preferably not ever.
“Male or female?”
“Female.”
Yeardley shrugged, nonchalant. “Watch for her blossom. Or for pollen production on males in the vicinity.”
“What about a faerie who hasn’t blossomed yet?”
“You can go to the records room—it’s just downstairs—and look her up.”
“Not here,” Laurel said. “In California.”
Yeardley’s eyes narrowed. “A faerie in the human world? Besides yourself, and your entourage?”
Laurel nodded.
“Unseelie?”
The Unseelie were still a mystery to Laurel. No one would talk about them directly, but she had gathered from bits and pieces that they all lived in an isolated community outside one of the gates. “I don’t think so. But there is some . . . confusion regarding her history, so we can’t be sure.”
“And she doesn’t know what season she is?”
Laurel hesitated. “If she does, it’s not something I can ask her.”
Comprehension dawned on Yeardley’s face. “Ah, I see.” He sighed and pressed his fingers against his lips, contemplating. “I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone ask for such a thing. Have you, Katya?”
When Katya shook her head, Yeardley continued. “We keep meticulous records of every seedling in Avalon, so this problem presents a unique challenge. But there must be something. Perhaps you could formulate a potion of your own?”
“Am I ready for that?” Laurel asked hopefully.
“Almost certainly not,” Yeardley said in his most matter-of-fact tone. “But practice needn’t always lead to success, after all. I think it would be good for you to begin learning the basic concepts of fabrication. And this seems a fine place to start. An identification powder, like Cyoan,” he said, referencing a simple powder that identified humans and non-humans. “Except you would have to figure out what separates the castes on a cellular level, and I’m unaware of much research in that area. It simply doesn’t lead anywhere.”
“What about thylakoid membranes?” Katya asked softly. As one, they all turned to face her.
“What was that?” Yeardley asked.
“Thylakoid membranes,” Katya continued, a little louder this time. “In the chloroplasm. The thylakoid membranes of Sparklers are more efficient. For lighting their illusions.”
Yeardley cocked his head to the side. “Really?”
Katya nodded. “When I was younger we sometimes stole the phosphorescing serums for the lamps and . . . um . . . drank them. It would make us glow in the dark,” she said, lowering her lashes as she related the childish antic. “I . . . had a Summer friend, and she did it with us one day. But instead of glowing for one night, she glowed for three days. It took me years to figure out why.”
“Excellent, Katya,” Yeardley said, a distinct note of pleasure in his voice. “I would like to discuss that more fully with you in the classroom sometime this week.”
