The circumstances. It is, I suppose, an efficient way to summarize the events of the last half year. The night in Amsterdam—its consequences—the aftermath—the backlash from the public—the disappointment from my parents—the judging eyes that seem to fall on me throughout every conversation at every family event. Molly.

Oscar.

As soon as his name appears in my mind, I wipe it clear. I do my best to think of him as little as possible. There’s no good in it. What happened, happened, though if thinking of it could somehow rearrange the events of June, then I would. I would think through every second, relive every moment in vivid, graphic detail, again and again if I must, until what I did was finally undone. But as it is, dwelling on it achieves nothing of any real importance.

I tried, once. I let myself think his name, and instead of pushing it away, I let my mind follow the path that name led it down. For perhaps ten seconds, I allowed myself to understand—really grasp—what happened that night.

It felt like drowning.

I haven’t allowed it since.

“I have to admit,” I say, “I was surprised to receive the prefect offer.”

The headmaster studies me for a long time. For now, his eyes and body language are perfectly aligned in their earnestness. “Do you know why I chose you for the position, Rose?” he asks finally.

“I hope it wasn’t out of pity, sir.”

It’s impolite of me, I know it is, but the words leave my mouth before I can censor them. That’s what sleep deprivation will do to a person, I suppose.

He raises his bushy gray eyebrows and purses his lips. “It was not out of pity,” he says, in a tone that is surprisingly gentle. “Do you know who I believe is the least likely person to do something reckless and ill-advised?”

I meet his eyes. “Who, sir?”

“Someone who has recently done something reckless and ill-advised, and is paying dearly for it.”

I tear my eyes from his, staring at his desk instead. My mouth goes dry, and my upper lip twitches against my will. His words land heavy. I have, after all, already made a vow to myself—multiple vows, really—to toe the line perfectly this year. For the rest of my life, too, if I can manage it, but this year seems like a reasonable starting point.

I intend to never experience anything like these last three months again.

When I don’t reply, the headmaster continues, gentler still. “I wonder if you might reconsider my offer of grief counseling.”

“No, thank you,” I say.

“Our psychologist, Miss Billows, is well equipped to help.”

“I’m certain she’s wonderful at what she does,” I say. “But I’m not grieving.”

“Rose—”