“I’m not saying either is better. I haven’t lived around humans nearly enough to judge. But consider this,” he said, placing one hand on her shoulder, his touch softening the edge of his words. “What if we lived here in Avalon like you do in the human world? Every time some Springs get a Fall seedling, it gets to live with them. They get to raise her. Except that she leaves them to go and study at the Academy for twelve hours a day. They never see her. They don’t understand anything she’s doing. On top of that, they don’t have a garden at their house—a garden she needs to do her classwork—so now she’s gone for fourteen, sixteen hours a day. They miss her; she misses them. They never see one another. Eventually they are like strangers, except that, unlike now, the parents know what they are missing out on. And it hurts, Laurel. It hurts them, and it hurts her. Tell me how that’s better.”

Laurel stood in shock as the logic sank in. Could he be right? She hated even considering it. And yet, it had a certain brutal efficiency she couldn’t deny.

“I’m not saying it’s better,” Tamani said, his voice gentle. “I’m not even saying you have to understand, but don’t think us devoid of emotion because we separate uppers from lowers. We have our reasons.”

Laurel nodded slowly. “What about fathers?” she asked, her tone quiet now, the anger gone. “Do you have a father?”

Tamani fixed his gaze firmly on the ground. “I did,” he said, his voice low and slightly choked.

Guilt rushed over her. “I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to…I’m sorry.” She touched his shoulder, wishing there was something more she could do.

Tamani’s jaw was clenched, but he forced a smile anyway. “It’s all right. I just miss him. It’s only been about a month.”

A month. Right when he would have been expecting her to come visit him at the land. But I didn’t come. Her chest felt empty. “I…I didn’t know.” She paused.

He smiled. “It’s fine, really. We all knew it was coming.”

“Really? What did he die of?”

“He didn’t die, really. It’s kind of the opposite of dying.”

“What does that mean?”

Tamani took a deep breath and let it out slowly. When he looked up at Laurel again, he was his old self—his mourning hidden away. “I’ll show you sometime. It’s something you have to see to understand.”

“But can’t we—?”

“We don’t have time today,” Tamani said, cutting her off with a tone that had just a hint of tightness beneath it. “Come on. I’d better get you back so they’ll let me take you again next time.”

“Next week?” Laurel said hopefully.

Tamani shook his head. “Even if I had that much Avalon leave, they won’t let you away from your studies. In a few weeks.”

Laurel found the concept of “Avalon leave” strangely disconcerting—but not as disconcerting as being cooped up in the Academy indefinitely. A few weeks? He may as well have said forever. She could only hope that her next phase of education would pass the time more quickly than sitting in her room with a stack of textbooks.

SIX

LAUREL STUDIED HER APPEARANCE IN THE MIRROR the next morning, wondering just what, exactly, an acolyte-level student was supposed to look like. After the fiasco of her first dinner in Avalon, she had taken pains to dress appropriately, but asking anyone what to wear never got her more than a smiling encouragement to wear “whatever you find most comfortable.” She considered her hair—pulled up in a ponytail—then untied the ribbon, letting it fall back down around her shoulders. As she was sweeping it up again, a knock sounded at her door. She opened it and peered out at Katya’s smiling face.

“I thought I’d come show you where to go, for your first official day of classes,” Katya said brightly.

“That would be great,” Laurel said, smiling in relief. She glanced at Katya’s outfit—a long, flowing skirt and a sleeveless, scoop-necked top. Laurel was wearing a calf-length sundress made out of a light material that swung in the breeze and rustled about her legs when she walked. She decided her outfit was similar enough to Katya’s that she wouldn’t look completely out of place.

“Are you ready, then?” Katya asked.

“Yeah,” Laurel said. “Just let me grab my bag.” She shouldered her backpack, which got a sidelong glance from Katya. With its thick, black zippers and nylon weave—not to mention the Transformers patch David had ironed onto it a few months back as a joke—it contrasted sharply with Katya’s canvas shoulder bag. But Laurel had nothing else to carry her note cards in; besides, it was comforting to carry her old, familiar backpack.

They headed out the door and, after a few turns, started down a long hallway lined with sugar-glass windows that flashed in the sunrise and projected the girls’ reflections on the opposite windows. Laurel studied their reflections as they walked, and for a moment lost track of which was her own. Katya was about Laurel’s height and also had blond hair, though hers was short and curled at cute angles all around her head. Most of the other faeries at the Academy colored their hair and eyes by manipulating their diets, so red-and green-and blue-haired faeries far outnumbered plain blondes and brunettes. It was an interesting approach to fashion that, under other circumstances, Laurel thought she might enjoy. As it was, she had her hands full with the nuances of the unofficial dress code.