They stood in the grand marble entrance with their small bags. Jaya tipped her head back to look at the enormous crystal chandelier suspended like a dewdrop above her head. The rose pendant hung heavy from her neck, eighteen rubies glinting like watchful eyes, reminding her why she was there.

Isha whistled, low and long, and Jaya glared at her. She cut off mid-whistle, looking only slightly abashed. “Nice setup,” she whispered, but her words echoed anyway. “Nicer than our last boarding school in Benenden, even. And the English really know boarding schools.”

The wall before them was adorned with flags of more than three dozen countries. A gold-plated sign above them boasted “Our students come from around the world!” Jaya’s gaze was drawn automatically toward the flags she knew very well—India, of course, along with the US, UK, UAE, China, Japan, Mauritius, and Switzerland. She’d spent summer holidays in all these places and lived in most of them, reading in cafés and parks while Isha foraged through thrift stores, searching for gears or batteries for whatever contraption she was working on.

The floor was drenched in sea-green tiles inlaid with gold, a splash of oceanic beauty here in the mountains. Jaya had heard it rumored that these were a gift from the Moroccan king half a century ago, when his son had been exiled here after an embarrassment of some kind. She hadn’t ever unearthed what that scandal was—St. Rosetta’s was very good at burying what they didn’t want found—though she felt a kinship with the king. He wasn’t the only one who’d shouldered the responsibility of protecting a wayward family member. Jaya’s eyes fluttered to Isha unwittingly, and she forced them away.

Isha gripped her arm, pointing to the wall on their right. “Look!” she whispered. “Is that…?”

They ogled a cluster of colorful paintings, large and small, that contrasted with the Moroccan tiles, depicting smooth desert landscapes that lifted off the page and caressed the eye. “I think so,” Jaya whispered back, thrilled. She wasn’t sure exactly why they were whispering. Maybe because they were in the presence of greatness? It was probably why people felt compelled to whisper in libraries, too. “Georgia O’Keeffe spent a semester here as a teen, and later donated paintings to the school as a thank-you.”

Before Isha could respond, thunderous footfalls came rushing down the opulent marble stairs that faced away from them. Without even turning to look, Jaya could guess from the boisterous, deep laughter that it was a couple of boys, though the sheer amount of noise could also indicate a herd of buffalo.

“Come on,” her sister said, tugging her forward.

Jaya grasped her wrist and shook her head. “Isha.”

“What?” Isha said, her brown eyes wide. “I just want to get to know our schoolmates. We have to spend the next year or two here with them anyway.”