Cover

Dedication

To Mary and Mayo Andreen

Prologue

DECEMBER 9TH

Perhaps it was because it had been an unusually warm early- December evening. Perhaps that’s why the bee left its hive to go exploring. Tired of being cooped up with the other bees, it broke free to stretch its bee wings and see a different part of the world. Or perhaps it just needed to get away for a while, finding the other bees to be annoying and wanting some space before it returned.

Whatever the reason, it was a very poor decision.

I saw it out of the corner of my eye as I walked back down the pathway from the campus store in the early evening, a tiny, frantic motion barely visible in the otherwise stagnant water of the decorative pond positioned between the girls’ dorm, Charity House, and the one that housed the boys, Waller Hall.

I stopped to stare until I realized what I was seeing: the bee was upside down in the water. Struggling.

My hesitation lasted a few seconds, then I couldn’t stand it anymore—poor thing—and stepped off the path.

The bee was about four feet out from the pond’s edge, and, despite it being warm out, this was still Connecticut and it was still December 9th.

My sixteenth birthday, as it so happened. And an early Saturday evening. Which meant I should be in the middle of getting ready for a fantastic party designed to celebrate the wonders of all things me.

Instead, I was contemplating the rescue of a bee.

I took off my black Converse, followed by my red-and-green Christmas socks, rolled my jeans over the skinny, pale-white lumps that were my calf muscles, grabbed a fallen leaf, and waded into the water.

Holy hell! It was cold! And slimy. Jesus, what was I stepping on? Was that moss? I really hoped that was moss.

Of course, it was at this exact moment I was found by Arthur Chakrabarti Watercress, who, if not the last person I would want to encounter in this position, was definitely in the Top Five.

“Finley? What on earth are you doing?” he demanded, because Arthur always seemed to demand. I was convinced “haughty” was his default.

I glanced back to see him frowning at me from the stone bridge that arched across the pond, linking the main campus of Barrington Academy—our mutual coed boarding school—and our respective dorms. His straight, inky-black hair was covered by a plain blue knit cap and the earthy green of his puffy jacket stood out against the light coming from the bridge’s faux-old-timey lampposts.

“I’m saving that bee,” I answered, as if this was a sane course of action.

I pointed at the tiny creature, which was now about two feet away.