Davies, Caitlin: ... I thank her for being so sweet.

Professor Penchant tells the group about a new strain of flower that Innovations Academy will be developing this semester. We love working in the greenhouse, love getting outside whenever we can. Even if the sunshine is rare.

"But only those who are well-behaved will get a chance to work on these plants," the professor warns. "There are no rewards for girls who are too spirited." He looks directly at me, and I lower my eyes, not wanting to vex him any more today. "Professor Driscoll will concur."

As the professor continues, turning away to point out other plants, I glance around the flower garden once again. It's then that I notice Guardian Bose standing near the entrance where we came in. He's talking to the curator of the garden, a young woman holding an over-sized red umbrella. While one hand holds the umbrella, she puts the other on her hip, talking impatiently to the Guardian. I wonder what they're discussing.

Guardian Bose is an intimidating presence in any setting, but even more so outside the walls of the academy, where he's become commonplace. He's here to ensure our safety and compliance, although we never misbehave, not in any significant way.

Innovations Academy, our all-girl private school, is very protective of us. We're confined to campus most days of our accelerated year-long program, and we don't go home on breaks. They say the complete immersion helps us develop faster, more thoroughly.

Recently, the academy raised its curriculum rigor, increasing the number of courses and amount of training. Our class of 12 was selected based on the new heightened standards. We're top of the line, they like to say. The most well-rounded girls to ever graduate. We do our best to make them proud.

Guardian Bose says something to the woman with the red umbrella. She laughs, shaking her head no. The Guardian's posture tightens, and then he turns to find me watching him. He angles his body to block my view of the woman. He tips his head, saying something near her ear, and the woman shrinks back. Within moments, she hurries toward the indoor facility and disappears.

I turn away before Guardian Bose catches me watching again.

Thunder booms overhead and Lennon Rose screams before slapping her hand over her mouth. The professor looks pointedly in her direction, but then he glances up at the sky as the rain begins to fall harder.

"All right, girls," he says, adjusting the hood on his rain slicker. "We're going to wrap this up for now. Back to the bus."

A couple of the girls begin to protest, but Professor Penchant claps his hands loudly to drown out their voices. He reminds them that we'll return next month, so long as we behave. The girls comply, apologizing, and start toward the bus. But as the others head that way, I notice that Valentine doesn't move; she doesn't even turn in that direction.

I swallow hard, unsettled. Rain pours over Valentine's slicker, running down the clear plastic in rivers. A drop runs down her cheek. I watch her, trying to figure out what's wrong.

Sensing me, she lifts her head. She is... expressionless. Alarming in her stillness.

"Valentine," I call over the rain. "Are you okay?"

She pauses so long that I'm not sure she heard me. Then she turns back to the flowers. "Can you hear them too?" she asks, her voice soft and faraway.

"Hear what?" I ask.

The corner of her mouth twitches with a smile. "The roses," she says affectionately. "They're alive, you know. All of them. And if you listen closely enough, you can hear their shared roots. Their common purpose. They're beautiful, but it's not all they are."

There's tingling over my skin because a few moments ago, I did try to listen to the roses. What are the chances that Valentine and I would have the same odd thought?

"I didn't hear anything," I admit. "Just quiet contentment."

Valentine's behavior is unusual, but I want to know what she's going to say next. I take a step closer.

Her smile fades. "They're not content," she replies in a low voice. "They're waiting."

A drop of rain finds its way under the collar of my shirt and runs down my spine, making me shiver.

"Waiting for what?" I ask.

Valentine turns to me and whispers, "To wake up."

Her eyes narrow, fierce and unwavering. Her hands curl into fists at her side.

I shiver again, but this time it's not from the rain. The academy tells us not to ask-