I failed on the ninth day again.

Nine days of measuring, weighing, breathing through my mouth so I wouldn’t cry when the accords collapsed. Nine days of Madame Valée walking past my station without a word, which was somehow worse than her scorn.

On the ninth day we were told to create a simple fougère—lavender, oakmoss, coumarin. Classic. Clean. Impossible to hide behind.

I had stayed until midnight the night before, alone in the lab, trying to get the lavender to stop screaming. It kept turning sharp and medicinal, like antiseptics they used to wipe blood off my thighs. Every time I diluted it, the oakmoss went muddy. Every time...