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Lark’s final year at Marchmain began with all the magic of a folktale.

Autumn lit the courtyard elms bonfire-bright; the scent of woodsmoke draped the air.

As she and Damson walked along the river on their way to Gallery Practical, fallen leaves decorated the surface of the water like scattered rubies.

Every time she stepped into the gallery, it felt like coming home.

Lark clung to this feeling, let it eclipse her homesickness for Verse. Hard as she tried to ignore it, her longing for home and her brothers lingered like it had been inked onto her skin. But she refused to think of going back, not until graduation.

She sent her brothers a single postcard midway through the semester, telling them she was busy studying, with no time to write. When they replied, she didn’t keep their letters under her pillow but tucked them into the bottom drawer of her desk beneath an old composition book she no longer used.

It was easier that way. To put aside how much she missed Henry and Oberon—and Verse—like a closed book being placed back on the highest shelf.

Everything she needed was here, at Marchmain.

She and Damson had built their own private realm, far removed from the others, with only the two of them as inhabitants.

Now, when Lark walked into the classroom and took her seat beside Damson, she hardly noticed the other students.

Most of them had been at the academy as long as her, since that awkward first term, but she barely remembered their names.

The end of semester neared. Unlike previous years, the major assessment was to be an essay, rather than a rote exam.

Lark deliberated endlessly over what to write.

All she could think about was her childhood in Verse, seeing Caedmon’s depiction of the local gods for the first time, and what it had meant for her.

It felt like a risk, to put so much of herself into something that would be graded. But once she began to write, the words poured out as though she were an oracle. When she tried to choose another topic, only a blank page remained.

In the essay, she included some of Caedmon’s early sketches from the book Alastair had given her.

She hadn’t been able to pack it away, even though the inscription from him on the endpapers made her alternately furious and sad when she read it.

Alongside a pencil sketch of a dark-feathered swan she wrote how it had felt to go into the sea caves and recite the homecoming prayer to Therion.

She was restless as she waited for the results to be posted.

This wasn’t like last year’s exams, when she and Damson had easily topped the list, second and first. When she had used index cards and quizzed herself to memorize the correct answers.

This essay was so personal. She’d felt too shy about it to even ask Damson for advice on the drafts.

Now, as Lark stood in front of the noticeboard, it was as though she’d offered up her existence for a grade.

“You look at it, please,” she said, as soon as Damson came around the corner. Damson was pale and wrought, her hair tied up in a messy chignon, her eyes owlish with too-little sleep. Lark realized her friend was nervous, too. “Look at the board and tell me what it says.”

The noticeboard had been cleared; the typed page of results was the only thing there.

Damson moved forward to inspect the list. Lark held her breath.

She waited for Damson to announce the results and then hug her, the way she usually did.

Then they would celebrate—last time they had gone to the café district and bought an entire box of strawberry pastries.

But Damson remained silent. Frowning, she took out her tortoiseshell reading glasses and put them on. She stepped closer to the noticeboard. Ran her finger across the typeset names. Finally, Lark couldn’t hold back any longer. She moved forward and read the list.

There, in clear serif font, were two names:

1. Lacrimosa Arriscane

2. Damson Sinclair

“Oh,” Lark breathed, her hand at her mouth.

A swift, bright thrill ran through her. Here was her name at the very head of the list, and she had earned that place with her personal account of life in Verse alongside the analysis of Caedmon’s works.

It was as though both her lives—this new one she had worked for; the old one she had left behind—had been interwoven as carefully as a braid.

This was proof that her sacrifices had been worth all the heartache.

Damson said nothing. Lark glanced at her in earnest confusion. They had topped the list, just as always. Their names crowned the typeset column like a flower wreath worn to a bonfire.

Only this time, Lark was first.

Damson shook herself, as though being pulled from a daydream. She offered Lark a smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Congratulations.”

“Where should we go to celebrate?” Lark asked.

Damson pressed her hand against her face and yawned as she rubbed tiredly at her eyes. “I was awake past midnight reading. All I want right now is to go back to bed.”

Lark went alone into the refectory. As she sat at the end of the long table with her breakfast tray, she was troubled and unsure. It felt like she had done something wrong, but she didn’t know what.

But the next morning, Damson greeted her cheerfully and they took a long walk along the river, buying flowers from a market stall. The air was clear and cool, scented with the promise of rain. Even the usual pollution clouds from the factory district had dissipated.

On their way back to Marchmain, they passed the gallery.

A banner had been hung at the entrance, advertising a new exhibition, the works of Paul Saint-Cean, a respected painter from Trieste.

Lark watched as it drifted silkily back and forth in the breeze.

“I’ve been thinking how much I would like to host an exhibition of Caedmon’s paintings in Verse,” she told Damson.

“Oh?” Damson looked between Lark and the gallery banner.

Lark bit her lip, feeling suddenly shy. Hurriedly, she went on, “And I wanted to write the proposal for it as part of our curatorship application. It would be so exciting, to take his works back to his hometown, to be seen by people who still worship the gods he painted.”

Damson walked for a long while without responding. Finally, she said, “I wouldn’t assume they would let you do that just because you share a birthplace with Caedmon.”

“I didn’t mean—” Lark stammered, her face gone hot, as she tried to find a way to explain herself. But the words didn’t come.

Damson reached to her, tucking back a strand of Lark’s hair from her flushed cheek. “It’s just that I worry about you being disappointed if they say no.”

Lark nodded and hugged the bouquet of flowers she had bought against her chest. They went the rest of the way back to their dorms in silence.

But just as Lark was about to slip wordlessly into her room, Damson caught her by the arm.

She gazed at Lark with a considered, assessing look.

It made her feel like she was a photostat of a sketch that needed to be divided up into ley lines.

“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 to be her.

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.”