Eyes turned to Laurel. She got a few smiles but mostly curious stares.

“She will be with us for the next several weeks. Please allow her to observe you freely. Answer her questions. There is no need for her to decant anything, particularly if it is a delicate undertaking, but please take the time to explain to her what you are doing, how, and why. Dismissed.” She clapped her hands once more, and the faeries dispersed.

“What now?” Laurel whispered to Katya. The buzz of conversation had returned to the room, but whispering still felt appropriate to Laurel after the silence of the last hour.

“We go work,” Katya said simply. “I have two long-term projects I’m working on right now, and then repetition work.”

“Repetition work?”

“Making simple potions and serums for the other faeries in Avalon. We learn how to make them when we’re quite young, but they only trust the higher level students to prepare the products that are actually distributed among the populace. We have monthly quotas and I’ve been so focused on my pear tree that I’m a little behind.”

“You all just…work? On whatever you want?”

“Well, advanced projects need to be approved by the faculty. They’ll wander through here and check up on us periodically. But yes, we decide on our own projects.”

The whole process reminded Laurel of the years she’d spent being homeschooled by her mother, building a curriculum around her personal interests and learning everything at her own pace. She smiled at the memory, even though she had long since stopped begging her mom to return to homeschooling—thanks in no small part to David and her friend Chelsea.

But here Laurel didn’t have a project of her own, and wandering the room didn’t seem like it would help her actually learn anything. Even after two weeks of memorizing plant uses, she simply didn’t know enough to ask meaningful questions of the students. So she was relieved when she saw a familiar face enter the room—an emotion she had doubted she would ever feel upon seeing the stern face of Yeardley, the fundamentals instructor.

“Is she ready?” Yeardley asked, addressing Katya instead of her.

Katya smiled and prodded Laurel forward. “She’s all yours.”

Laurel followed Yeardley to a station at the table lined with equipment. Without so much as a greeting, he began to quiz her on the second batch of books she had been reading the past week. She didn’t feel complete confidence in any of her answers, but Yeardley seemed pleased enough with her progress. He reached into his own shoulder bag and pulled out…more books.

Disappointment washed over her. “I thought I was done reading,” Laurel said before she could stop herself.

“You are never done,” Yeardley said, as if it were a bad word. “Each caste has its essential nature. The essence of Spring magic is social; it trades on empathy. Summer faeries must hone their sense of aesthetics; without art, their magic is thin indeed. The essence of our magic is intellect; knowledge gleaned through careful study is the reservoir from which our intuition draws its power.”

That didn’t sound like magic to Laurel. Mostly it sounded like a lot of hard work.

“That said, these are my books, not yours.”

Laurel managed to stifle a sigh of relief.

“Laurel.”

She looked up at the tone of his voice. It wasn’t stern, the way it had been a moment earlier. It was tense—worried, even—but there was a softness to it that hadn’t been there before.

“Normally at this point I would begin teaching you rudimentary potions. Lotions, cleansing serums, nutritional tonics—that sort of thing. The things we teach novices. But you’re going to have to come back at a less important time and learn those or catch up on your own. I’m going to teach you defensive herbology. Jamison insisted, and I’m in full agreement with his decision.”

Laurel nodded, feeling a rush run through her. Not just from excitement at starting actual lessons, but because of the reason for the acceleration: the threat of the trolls. This was what she’d been waiting for.

“Most of what I teach you will be beyond your abilities to replicate, likely for quite some time, but it will be a start. I expect you to work hard, for your own sake more than mine.”

“Of course,” Laurel replied earnestly.

“I’ve had you reading about a variety of plants and their uses. What you may not yet realize is that making potions, serum, elixirs, and the like is not simply about mixing essences together in the right amounts. There is always a general guideline—a recipe, if you will—but the process as well as the result will differ from one Fall faerie to the next. What we teach in the Academy is not about recipes, but following your intuition—trusting the ability that is your birthright, and using your knowledge of nature to enhance the lives of everyone in Avalon. Because the most essential ingredient in any mixture is you—the Fall faerie. No one else can do what you do, not even if they follow your rituals with unerring precision.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a small pot with a little green plant growing in it, its buds tightly closed.

“You must learn to feel the very core of the nature you work with,” he continued, touching the plant gently, “and to form a connection with it, so close, so intimate, that you know not only how to bend its components to your will”—he searched through a row of bottles and picked one up, opening it and dabbing a drop of its contents on his finger—“but to unlock its potential and allow it to thrive as no one else can.” He carefully touched each of the closed blossoms with his wet finger and as he pulled his hand away, the tiny buds opened to reveal bright purple flowers.