When the curtain call ended, the hall burst into thunderous appuse, and at st the curtain fell.

  “Good work. You were incredible tonight.”

  Backstage, Océan—who had pyed Heathcliff—held out her right hand. I took it, my fingers closing around her damp palm. Her face was bright with accomplishment.

  “You too,” I said.

  Around us, our cssmates were hugging, ughing, sharing the joy of a performance that had been an undeniable success. Yet I felt oddly distant from that shared excitement. My thoughts were already racing elsewhere.

  I needed to see my sister. Right now.

  Avery, why don’t you py the heroine? Catherine would be perfect for you. If I saw you on stage as Catherine, I’d brag to everyone—That’s my little sister. Isn’t she amazing?

  If it hadn’t been for her words, I would never have volunteered for such a prominent role in Wuthering Heights. Unlike most of my cssmates, I had no experience in theatre. The heroine was one of the most important—and most visible—roles in the entire py. But I wanted her to be proud of me. That alone was enough.

  Night after night, I stayed awake memorizing an overwhelming number of lines. I endured rehearsals while whispers followed me through the room, sharp and careless, loud enough for me to hear.

  Why is she the lead?

  I barely noticed the exaggerated praise from our homeroom teacher, or the compliments from cssmates I had hardly spoken to before. None of it mattered. All I wanted was to see my sister—to hear her voice.

  Lifting the hem of my pale silk dress, trimmed with ribbons and ce, I nearly stumbled as I pushed through the buzzing crowd. I slipped from the wings into the auditorium.

  She wasn’t there.

  Not where she had been before—among the third-year students seated near the middle rows.

  Still flushed with heat and appuse, I left the hall, crossed the fountain pza where a bronze statue of the school’s first headmaster stood, and ran back into the school building.

  —Where is she?

  I was certain I had seen her during the performance, watching me with unwavering focus. I ran up the stairs and stopped in the second-floor hallway, in front of the practice rooms.

  She was there.

  At the far end of the corridor, outside the cssroom of the 3-B acting css.

  She was locked in an embrace with another girl from her css, their lips pressed together in a fervent kiss.

  Jealousy.

  Anger.

  Disappointment.

  Grief.

  Shame.

  Regret.

  And then—emptiness.

  All of it crashed into me at once, and my knees gave way.

  —At that moment.

  “Stay with me.”

  Two arms caught me from behind, holding me upright.