For just one moment, everything was perfect. Solene tasted the salt in the air, the omnipresence of the sea. The rolling of the waves was the underlying beat to the surf-rock sound of her favorite radio station, courtesy of the hot pink and orange boom box on the edge of her threadbare beach towel worn from years of use. Her hair spilled out around her, the ordinary dark brown giving way to her mother's silvery-blonde on every wavy strand. Above was an endless blue sky with clouds rolling by—not too many of them. 

She closed her eyes beneath her red heart-shaped sunglasses. With the sound of more cars pulling up to the beach parking lot, the peace of the morning would be shattered soon enough. The delighted shrieks of children and seagulls alike already mixed with the far-off happy chimes of the boardwalk shops. 

But for a moment longer, Solene could enjoy the tranquility of a morning by the ocean. 

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. 

She should be excited—who didn't want to learn the art of witchcraft? What witch-child in the world of Verana didn't want to go to a school as old and prestigious as the Anouir Institute?

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. She'd get to see her friends and coven-mates again. She'd be out of the house on Solana Boulevard, away from her mother. 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. 

Solene opened her eyes and sighed. She propped herself up on her elbows to take in Verona Beach. 

A bus had pulled up in the parking lot, and a pack of young werewolf boys and girls spilled out, arms laden with floating devices and beach balls and everything anyone could ever want for a day at Verona. Solene could recognize them as such from the streaks of white and silver in their hair, and some of them had one blue eye and one brown—a common form of heterochromia for their kind. 

They were already shouting and howling as they made beelines for the water, dropping their things haphazardly on their way. 

"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."

It was almost noon! 

Solene sighed and hit the off-switch to her boom box. She'd need to head back home to get packed for the next semester at Anouir. She tossed her book, Anya and the Witches of the Marvelous Magical Land into her beach-bag, along with her towel and sunglasses. She was about to draw out of it her sun-dress, when the sounds of the werewolves splashing about drew her attention to the water once more. 

Such a perfect, crystalline blue. 

She hadn't gotten in once today, instead preferring to sit farther back under what little shade the palm trees gave and read her book and listen to the radio. 

The waters were too volatile around the island where the Anouir Institute was located. If she wanted to swim, this was her last chance until it was time for the late fall and winter holidays. 

She'd told her mother that she'd be back around noon. 

Solene rose to her feet. A few minutes in the water wouldn't kill her. And what was one more fight with her mother before the end of the summer?

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. 

This was a perfect moment. 

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. 

She could only stay for a moment. 

Satisfied, Solene touched her toes to the sandy bottom of the shallows and began to make her way back to the shore.

When she returned to her bag and threw her red-and-white gingham sun dress over her shoulders, that was when she noticed him. 

He was coming off the sidewalk from the boardwalk. Tall and thin, with layers of rock band t-shirts and flannels that had to be warm in the midday heat with how they masked his silhouette, he had a freckled face with an ethereal slope to it. He also was definitely one of the werewolves, with a large stream of white in his floppy caramel-brown hair and his left eye blue, the right brown. He had a pair of big black headphones on, connected to a portable CD player at his hip, his hands shoved in the pockets of his loose, ripped jeans. 

He hadn't come in with the other werewolves—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 hazel.

Solene felt completely exposed, and all else around her seemed to fade 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 floating again—but with none of the safety the ocean provided. 

He stopped in his tracks, eyes wide. He hadn't been expecting it either. He opened his lips, reached out a hand in an attempt to connect—perhaps the most frightening thing that he could do. 

This feeling—it scared her. 

So Solene did the only thing she knew how to do. 

She ran from it. 

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. 

Solene wasn't sure what she'd experienced on the beach. At least the werewolf boy had seem just as surprised at it, even if he were more open to it than she was. 

She didn't want to ponder it. 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. 

As she exited the wooden stairway and stepped onto the asphalt of her cul-de-sac, she reminded herself that there were bigger fish to fry.

After all, there was the matter of the witch in the house. She would have to mentally prepare herself to do battle with her. After all, Luna Danaan was a formidable opponent, being Solene's mother and all. 

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.