There was a moment, halfway through July, when she almost quit. It was the night of the Morrison-Wells wedding. A sudden squall had blown in off the Atlantic, turning the perfectly manicured lawn into a swamp. The tent pegs loosened, the flower arches toppled, and two hundred guests panicked. Freya was soaked to the bone, her uniform clinging to her, shivering as she tried to hold down a corner of the main tent while the wind howled like a wounded animal. She felt small, useless, and profoundly tired. She wanted to be anywhere else—back in the air-conditioned library at school, or even in her bedroom staring at the ceiling.