Solene wished that the last morning of summer vacation could last forever. It was an infuriatingly perfect moment. The kind that made you mourn the end to come, before it was even on its way.

She tasted the salt in the air, the omniprescence of the sea. The rolling of the waves was the underlying beat to the surf-rock sound of her favorite radio station. The delighted shrieks of children and seagulls alike mixed with the far-off happy chimes of the boardwalk shops. Her hair spilled out around her onto her faded threadbare towel, the ordinary dark brown giving way to her mother's silvery-blonde on every wavy strand. If she opened her eyes, it would be to endless blue above, spotted with the occasional puffy cloud.

All too quickly the morning was shattered by the roar of cars.

Solene opened her eyes and sighed. She propped herself up on her elbows to better see the parking lot.

There, a mint green and white bus with colorful flowers painted on the side split open for a pack of werewolves. They spilled out, athletic-looking boys and girls with streaks of white and silver in their hair. They sprinted towards the white sand, arms laden with floating devices and beach balls and everything anyone could ever want for a day at Verona Beach. They were already shouting and howling as they made beelines for the water, dropping their things haphazardly on their way.

The pink and orange boom box went silent for a moment, with the crinkle of static as the studio mic went live.

"And that was Juno Prestley with her hit single, "I Cast a Spell On You." This is Erika

Rodriguez, and this is the Bramble, the station for the most enchanting pop hits. The time is 11:53, and we'll be taking a commercial break."

Solene groaned. It was almost noon—the morning had gone by too quickly. She hit the off-switch to her boom box. She tossed her book into her beach-bag, then her towel and sunglasses. She was about to draw out of it her sun-dress, when the wind shifted, a change toward a chill. A pale imitation of the seasons once described in ancient lore, it was still a reminder of the change that was coming.

Tomorrow, summer vacation would end and Solene would be expected to hop on the ferry and return to the Anouir Institute.

The thought of returning to the island beyond the red arches of the Dragonsgate Bridge made Solene's stomach revolt.

She should be excited—who didn't want to go to a school as old and prestigious as the Anouir Institute, to learn the secrets of magic?

It was the kind of school that adventures were held at. On an island past the

Dragonsgate Bridge with the distinct red-arches that expanded over the peninsulas of Ventura Sound, the Anouir Institute felt like it was beyond all civilization, a world unto itself. It was a school where children became adults, where witchlings grew up to be proper witches, with all the independence that implied.

There was a time when she might've been more excited to return. She knew she should be. This was supposed to be her last year, when she'd finally decide what she wanted to do with her life—something she'd known ever since she was a little girl.

And yet, there was uncertainty, which kindled a dread in her stomach.

Things couldn't go on the way they were, in more ways than one.

But Solene couldn't help but wish for the summer to last, at least for a little longer. Perfect moments like these were fleeting, slipping through her fingers like a fistful of the fine white sand of her favorite beach.

She was drawn from her longing for a truly eternal summer when the sounds of the werewolves splashing about drew her attention to the water once more.

Such a perfect, crystalline blue.

Solene rose to her feet. She strode confidently toward the water, her hair dancing in the sea-breeze as she entered the ocean and let herself fall onto her back in its placid, playful waters. In the embrace of the water, all worries and dread was eased away. It was just Solene, in the water and in the air, floating. The sun was hot, the sun beaming down on her face while the cool water teased at her hair and cooled her limbs.

Her toes brushed against the sand and brought her crashing back down to the earth.

She emerged reluctantly. She returned to her bag, to the promise of return that was still waiting for her of the ceaseless forward march of time. She'd just thrown her sun-dress over her head, a red-and-white gingham that reminded her of strawberries, when she saw him.

He was on the sidewalk leading up to the boardwalk.

Tall and thin, he draped himself with layers of rock band t-shirts and flannels that had to be warm in the midday heat with how they masked his silhouette. His freckled face had an ethereal slope to it, a combination of features that felt eerily familiar to her.

A prominent chunk of white hair amongst caramel brown and completely differently-colored eyes gave him away as a werewolf. But he wasn't with the ones playing in the water now.

No, there was something different about him. Maybe it was the wary way he had his shoulders hunched, the way he seemed lost in his thoughts, zoned-out—that is, until he passed the other werewolves. His eyes didn't leave them, even though they didn't notice him in their typical teenage beach shenanigans.

When he finally passed them, he looked back ahead—and their eyes met.

Blue-and-brown to gray.

All else around her faded away. It was as if they were the only two people on this beach, the only two people in the world and he could see right through her. It left her breathless, exhilarated. She was completely exposed. She was floating again—but with none of the safety the ocean provided.

He stopped in his tracks, eyes wide. He opened his lips, reached out a hand in an attempt to connect despite the vast space of sand between them. Perhaps the most frightening thing that he could do.

Solene did the only thing she knew how to do.

She ran.

She ran and she only slowed once she hit the old wooden steps that were built between two of the backyards on the houses on the other side of the street from hers. It made the otherwise steep trek up the unforgiving hills of Ventura Sound just a little bit easier. She passed under the orange tree of Mr. McCartney's backyard, finally feeling as if she were able to breathe again.

She didn't want to ponder what had happened on the beach. She wanted to shove the memory into the bottom of the trunk she kept in her bedroom closet, with all the other things she couldn't be rid of but wanted to forget. 

Solene pushed the incident out of her head and trudged up the wooden stairs. She crossed the street to the house painted a pale lavender with stark black trim, the house that she'd grown up in. Her father had painted it to match her mother's tastes. Her mother would recount the story with a rare fondness in her quartz-gray eyes, only to quickly dismiss it as she did all memories of Solene's father.

And she would always betray herself with a glance out the window, past the back-porch where the lilacs bloomed. The lilacs that had appeared the night that Julien Frey died.