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“Lark. I think you should kiss me.”

Lark swallowed. She wasn’t sure how to respond. Part of her wanted to laugh; the other felt wretchedly afraid. She knew the intensity of what she felt for Damson went beyond friendship—she loved her so fiercely it felt like a wound—but crossing that divide, admitting her longing, had always seemed impossible. “Are you sure?”

Damson took Lark’s face between her hands. She was grave, her expression completely serious. “You’ve never been kissed before, have you?” Lark shook her head, feeling the slide of Damson’s palms against her cheeks. “Well, this way, we’ll always be special to each other, no matter who else comes along. You’ll always belong to me.”

Lark wanted this more than she was willing to admit, even to herself. Perhaps this would heal the strange rift that was forming between them; if she let Damson kiss her, claim her, then everything would be mended. There would be no more troubled silences, no more discomforting moments when Lark felt like she had said or done something wrong.

They would be two Verse girls again, building a new life together.

“Please,” Lark said, her voice barely a whisper. “I want you to kiss me.”

Damson’s fingers tightened against Lark’s cheeks. She pulled her close and kissed her, swift and fierce. Her mouth was impossibly soft. But behind that plush softness, her teeth were hard, an unexpected sting.

She pulled back, dragged her thumb across Lark’s lips, and walked away to her room without saying anything else. Lark swallowed, tasting the remnants of Damson’s lip stain.

Lark lay awake for the rest of the night, her head spinning, her room too hot. She had known for a long time that she loved Damson, but the way she felt right now was different from the strange, raw yearning she’d felt toward Alastair. She wanted both to be with Damson and simply tobeher. With a sigh, she flipped her pillow over and buried her face against the cooler side.

A new student began at Marchmain in their final semester. Lark only noticed her because she was sitting beside Damson in their History of Composition class. She had the same ash-brown hair as Damson, cut into a sleek bob. From a distance, the two girls looked alike enough to be siblings. Lark hesitated in the doorway of the classroom, but when Damson saw her, she smiled and beckoned her over.

“This is Jeune Holloway,” she announced. “Her family lives in the same neighborhood as my grandmother, so I promised to look out for her.”

Jeune regarded Lark coolly through her wire-rimmed glasses. She held out her hand; her nails were painted with dark red varnish. She wore a cream woolen sweater, a beige tweed skirt, and lace-up canvas shoes. As though she were on her way to a garden party. “It’s nice to meet you,” she told Lark.

Lark thought of the golden ratio. Herself and her brothers. Her trio of friendship with Alastair and Camille before everything changed. She tried to feel hopeful that Damson would unfold her friendship with this new girl and make room for Lark. But as the weeks passed, Jeune only ever treated her with stilted politeness.

When the three of them walked together, Jeune and Damson would always go quickly, not leaving space at their side for Lark. Shefelt like she was always rushing to keep pace with them, fighting desperately not to be swept aside or left behind.

And often she would see Damson and Jeune whispering coyly together. Whatever they were saying, they always fell silent as soon as Lark approached.

She was snared with inescapable anxiety, countless worries she couldn’t name. Damson was her best friend; she had kissed Lark, claimed her. Lark told herself nothing was wrong, everything was mended. But as the deadline for their curatorship application drew closer, Damson was never in her rooms when Lark went to speak with her about it. She had completed her part of the essay and wanted Damson to read the final version before they turned it in.

Finally, she gathered up all their notes and slipped them inside a folder, tying it closed with a scrap of ribbon. She found Damson in one of the library corrals. She and Jeune were sharing a desk, a cut apple on a napkin between them as they worked on an essay. Lark noticed the papers, remembering how Damson had told her she didn’t need any help.

Swallowing down a quaver of hurt, Lark produced the folder.

Damson took it from her, but she didn’t smile. She toyed with the ribbon, her eyes downcast. “Lark, I’ve been meaning to tell you Headmistress Blanche spoke to me the other day. She said there’s been a change of rules about the application. We can’t submit together after all.”

Lark stared at her, helpless. “But the deadline is next week.”

Damson untied the ribbon. It fell to the floor, ignored, as she began to flip through the folder. She pulled out several sheafs of papers, setting them aside, then gave the rest back to Lark. “Here. I’ve taken my notes. All you’ll have to do is rework your part.”

Lark clutched the folder. Her hands were shaking. “But, Damson, I’ve been counting on you, on your half of the research.” Her throat was tight. Despairingly, she realized she was about to cry.

Jeune picked up a slice of apple, bit into it with acrunch. Shechewed it slowly, swallowed, and wiped her fingers on the napkin. “Gods, Lacrimosa, don’t be such a baby. You’re always making a fuss about how you’re such an expert on Caedmon—”

“No, I don’t,” Lark protested, but Jeune ignored her, going on.

“—so it shouldn’t be any trouble for you to write it on your own. You alreadyhavemost of the notes.”

Jeune dismissively indicated the folder in Lark’s hands. Damson went back to her essay, attention fixed on the handwritten lines. Lark picked up the discarded ribbon from the floor, clutching it tightly in her fist. She hurried out of the library before Jeune—or Damson—could see the tears that had filled her eyes.

She spent the rest of the week in her room. She hardly slept. She woke early, before first light, going down to the refectory for breakfast before anyone else arrived. She worked past sunset, until midnight, sitting raw-eyed in the lamplit gloom, a mug of black coffee turned cold on the desk beside her. Her world devolved into the ache of fatigue, crumpled notepaper, ink on her fingers, the way her hands shook.

Without Damson’s notes, all Lark had was her plan for the exhibition in Verse. She put together the proposal, interspersed with details about her own connection to Caedmon and his artwork of the local gods, once again using sketches from the book Alastair had given her. On the day the application was due, she delivered it to Headmistress Blanche, went back to her dorm, and fell soundly asleep.

Lark’s dreams were full of bonfire sparks, walls hung with golden frames, an endless mural. A velvet-covered altar in a cave beside the sea. The next morning, she was awoken by a persistent knocking at her door. She emerged, groggily, and was told by an unfamiliar second-year student that the headmistress wanted to see her immediately. Lark pulled on fresh clothes and hurried to the commons building, up tothe faculty offices on the topmost floor. She was breathless by the time she stepped inside.

Headmistress Blanche stood with her back to Lark, her face toward the window. Below were the school gardens, neat rows of vegetable beds, the ornate greenhouse where they grew summer produce. “I am putting you on academic probation,” she said to Lark, not turning, “for plagiarism.”