And with that, the headmaster struck a match and lit it on fire. The flame caught immediately, traveling around the structure like fingers. But when he held a match to mine, nothing happened.

I raised a hand to my cheek, confused, as the headmaster struck another match, and then another.

“Your wood is wet,” he remarked, touching a branch and rubbing his fingers together.

“What?” I said. “But I specifically chose dry, dead wood. None of it was wet.”

The headmaster didn’t respond. Instead, he struck another match, and then another, until the wood finally ignited. But as the fire spread to the rest of the pyre, the clearing was engulfed in thick, black smoke.

Moving away, everyone started to cough and swat at the air.

“Why is this happening?” I said. “I don’t understand.”

The headmaster picked up an ax, and with three rapid swings, he took the pyre down, the wood collapsing outward until the fire went out and the smoke cleared. In the middle of my pyre was a messy pile of damp leaves and weeds, hissing as the smoke curled out of the embers.

“But I didn’t put those there,” I said. “I never put wet leaves in my pyre.”

I glanced around the clearing, but no one seemed to care. As everyone began to pack up, my eyes rested on Clementine, who gave me the beginning of a smile before bending over to pick up her water bottle. It was empty.

I threw my tools on the ground and was about to go over to her, when I saw Noah a few feet away. He had picked up Clementine’s coat but was frozen in place. He must have seen her look at me, because he studied her, his face twisting with disgust as he realized what she’d done. Dropping her coat at his feet, he turned and walked back to the van.

Clementine sat in the back row, and Noah just in front of her, as we drove back to school. When there was a lull in the headmaster’s music, I could hear the low hum of their arguing. As we wound through the streets, I felt a thin strand of cold air wrap itself around my ankles and then break free as we turned a corner.

“Did you feel that?” I asked Anya.

“Feel what?” she said, looking up from her book.

I held up a finger to silence her, and closed my eyes, trying to find it again, but there was nothing.

“Never mind,” I said, and gazed out the window, staring at the faces of the people on the sidewalk, hoping to see Dante. When we got back to St. Clément, it was raining. As I walked across the courtyard with Anya, I felt a hand on the sleeve of my coat. Hearing Clementine’s voice near me, I whipped around. “Don’t touch me.” I was face-to-face with Noah.

He stepped back, retracting his hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“Oh,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “I thought you were…” I stopped short before saying her name.

“Ah,” he said, understanding who I was talking about. “I see. Well, I just wanted to—”

“You don’t have to apologize for her. I can take care of myself.”

Noah pushed a lock of hair out of his face. “—apologize for my behavior,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said all those things. I don’t know anything about the guy or how he treats you. I was just caught off guard.”

Biting my lip, I nodded. “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t—”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I know.”

The mist speckled his glasses, the water catching on the rust stubble climbing up his cheeks. “I also wanted to ask what you were doing on Friday.”

“Friday?” Even though I had no plans, I pretended to think about it so as not to appear pathetic. “I don’t know. I’ll have to check.”

He hesitated, as if he were nervous. “Would you…” he said slowly, “have any interest in coming to my house for dinner?”

“Your house? Like with your parents?” I said, both flattered and confused.

“Yeah,” he said, with an amused smile. “Haven’t you ever been to dinner with someone’s parents?”

To my embarrassment, I hadn’t. At least not to a boy’s house. Dante didn’t have any parents, and before that…well, I could hardly remember life before that. The thought of having dinner with Noah’s parents was so traditional, so normal, that it was almost strange.

“I go home every Friday, and even though my parents are delightful people, I don’t know if I can take an entire evening alone with them this week. Having you there might actually make it fun.” I must have looked a little uneasy, because he added, “Take pity on me?”

“But what about Clementine?”

Noah’s dimples disappeared as his smile faded. “What about her?”

“She’s your girlfriend. Shouldn’t you be bringing her?”

He scratched his head. “Right, well…we’ve been fighting.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “The point is, I’m asking you.”

I bit my lip. “Oh, that’s nice, but—”

“Great,” he said with a huge grin. “I’ll take that as a yes. I’ll meet you at the gates at six.”

That Friday, I spent an hour trying on clothes in front of the mirror in the bathroom, the thick fabrics tickling the mark between my shoulders, before I finally settled on an outfit that said “Just friends.”

“What are you doing in there?” Clementine yelled through the door. I was tempted to tell her that I was getting ready to go to dinner with Noah, but then decided that was too cruel.

Noah’s parents lived in a beautiful brick town house in Outremont. We took the metro there. It was crowded, and Noah’s hand kept slipping down the metal railing, touching mine.

His father answered the door, wearing an apron over his work suit. Comfortably plump, with full cheeks and a swirl of brown hair clinging to the top of his head like a toupee, he looked nothing like Noah. He was holding a glass of red wine. “Ah, hello!” he said with a smile, his face flushed as he gave Noah a hug, the wine sloshing out of his glass. He wore a heavy ring on his pinkie finger.

“Dad, this is Renée.”

“Luc,” he said, squeezing my hand and then beckoning us inside.

The Fontaine house was a cozy mess—all oriental carpets and stacks of political magazines and books. A large aquarium stood on one side of the living room, filled with tiny spotted fish that looked like they were made of newspaper.

The sound of clattering dishes came from the kitchen, followed by a tall woman who entered the foyer holding a cutting board of charcuterie.

“Ah, and this is my Veronica,” Luc said, turning to Noah’s mother and placing his hand on the small of her back.

She looked just like Noah: tall, angular, effortlessly elegant. Her legs seemed even longer because of her high heels. “It’s a pleasure.”

As we followed her to the dining room, she said over her shoulder, “I hope you like meat.” Before I could respond, she corrected herself. “Oh, but of course you do. You’re a Monitor, no?”

The table was already set. Noah pulled out a chair for me, and in a sloppy bow, laid my napkin across my lap. I laughed as he sat next to me. His parents shared a knowing look as his mother passed around the cutting board, atop which sat an elaborate spread of pâté, sausage, and paper-thin slices of roast beef. She then disappeared into the kitchen.

On one side of the room was an ornate fireplace. Above the mantel hung two tiny trowels, both mounted on wooden plaques. The first said Noah; the second said Katherine.

“That was my first shovel,” Noah said over my shoulder. “I was four when my parents gave it to me.”

“Is this how you grew up?” I asked. “You always knew what you were?”

“Every family is different,” his father said, filling my glass with wine. “Here, we are very open. We are what we are. What’s the use in keeping secrets from each other?”

I watched as Noah spread a bit of pâté on a piece of bread and took a bite. He laughed at something his father said, and then looked at me. I hadn’t caught the joke, but I laughed anyway. This was what my life would have been if my parents hadn’t died. If I could fall in love with Noah. But something was off about all of it. Why was I here, and not Clementine? Was I really that special to Noah, or was he interested in an idea of a girl that he thought was me?

The door swung open and Noah’s mother returned carrying a silver platter and another dish. Noah’s father put his hand on her hip as she removed the lids, revealing potatoes roasted with rosemary and thyme and a rack of lamb, its rib bones sticking out of its center like a piece of modern art. I should have been overwhelmed by the aromas, but I couldn’t smell anything. The more I stared at the food, the more it looked almost waxy and unreal, as if there were a filter between me and everything else.

“So Noah told us you ranked number one at St. Clément?” his mother said, serving each of us. “Very impressive.”

Noah’s father clucked and picked up his wine. “Yes,” he said. “And what kind of Monitor are you?”

“Um—I don’t know.”

“I assume you are planning to join the High Monitor Court when you finish school?” Noah’s mother asked, crossing her legs.

Before I could answer, Noah cut in. “She can do whatever she wants,” he said. “She’s good at everything.”

I felt myself blush. “Then why wouldn’t she?” Noah’s father said. “It’s the most coveted job in our society.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to be a High Monitor,” Noah offered. “Maybe she wants to do something else.”

I tried to get a word in, when his mother’s laugh stopped me. “But everyone wants to be a High Monitor. Noah, if you just apply yourself, one day you could—”

“I don’t want to talk about this now,” he said, trying to control his voice.