While I could think of many adjectives to describe myself, “free” wasn’t usually one that came to mind.

“Oh, Sydney,” Zoe lamented. “Why is she doing this?”

“Because she loves you,” I said quietly.

“That’s not love.”

I was glad Zoe didn’t elaborate because I was pretty sure I wouldn’t have been able to keep my cool in the face of whatever shallow definitions of love she would’ve undoubtedly come up with.

“Mom’s not going to be able to match all of Dad’s educational and cultural talk,” I observed. “All she’ll have is anecdotal stuff to go on. Like that time you broke your foot.”

“It was my whole leg,” Zoe said quietly. I didn’t say anything else. I didn’t have to, judging from the faraway look in her eyes. When Zoe was little, she’d wanted to take gymnastics, so our mom had made it happen. An accident at a meet had broken Zoe’s leg, and she’d had to spend the night in the hospital, which was devastating since it was the same night as her team’s victory party. Mom had made arrangements to bring the team and the party to the hospital room, much to the staff’s astonishment. Zoe, craving social contact back then, had loved it. Our dad had thought the incident was proof of how worthless the class was.

When I drove the gang to Clarence’s later that evening, I heard a text come in on the Love Phone in my purse. Strict principles against texting and driving kept me away from it, but it wasn’t easy. That, and I tried not to get the phone out when others were around. As soon as we were walking up Clarence’s driveway, however, I pulled it out and read Adrian’s message: Escape plan #5: Open an alpaca ranch in Texas, one that requires all blond‑haired, brown‑eyed, brainy girls to wear sexy cowgirl outfits.  I reread the words and smiled before deleting it, just like I did all of his messages. Jill caught my eye as she passed and smiled back at me. Sometimes her inner knowledge was creepy. Sometimes, it was like a comforting diary, having someone who knew about my romance. I really didn’t like a life of secrets, even if I’d been raised to live one.

None of us were great company tonight. I was down over Adrian, Jill over her Neil/Eddie dilemma, Angeline over Trey, and Zoe over our parents. Only Eddie and Clarence seemed to be having a good time–well, and Dorothy, once she was swimming on the high of having given Jill her blood. Clarence was in one of his more coherent moments and was regaling us with some of his tales of traveling, back when he was younger and hadn’t withdrawn from the Moroi world. One of his stories mentioned visiting a small exclusively dhampir training academy in Italy that had an excellent reputation. Eddie hung on every detail that Clarence could muster up.

“Deadly on the inside, beautiful on the outside. The entire roof of the building was a viewing deck, and students often spent their evenings–after training, of course–sitting out with espresso and watching the views of Lake Garda.” He frowned. “Can’t recall its Italian name.”

“Lago di Garda,” I said automatically.

“Ah, yes. That was it. And it wasn’t too far from Verona, either. You could get a little Shakespearean insight.” He chuckled.

Zoe looked up from the remnants of her pizza and made a rare show of engaging Clarence. “Don’t mention him.”

“Why ever not? He’s a great writer. And I thought you were such a literature fan too.”

Zoe nodded toward me. “That’s her. I have to write about one of his plays and don’t have a book. I can’t believe she’s making us e‑mail her our choice tomorrow. On a Saturday! I’ll have to hunt down an online version on my laptop when we get home.”

“I see.” Clarence smiled magnanimously. “Well, why don’t you just borrow one of mine?”

For a minute, I thought Clarence meant she could borrow a laptop, which would be mind‑blowing since, last I checked, the microwave was the most high‑tech item in the house. Then, thinking of how every room contained shelves of books, I understood. “You’ve got some of his plays?” I asked.

“All of them. They’re in the extra storage in the garage. You’re welcome to go browse.”

“Do you have . . .” Zoe glanced at me questioningly. “What was it, A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

“Of course,” said Clarence. “A great piece on love.”

I scoffed. “I don’t know about that. It’s mostly a series of zany hijinks set against a magical backdrop.”

“Didn’t you say we were practically living it?” Zoe asked.

“Love, in my experience,” began Clarence, “generally is  a series of zany hijinks.”

“Love is . . .” An old memory with Adrian came back to me, and some of the turbulent emotion I always carried within me these days welled up in my chest. It was stupid, feeling so lovesick when he’d been gone less than a day, but I couldn’t get him or the ways he described love out of my head. “. . . a flame in the dark. A breath of warmth on a winter’s night. A star that guides you home.” When I realized everyone was staring at me, I quickly tried to redirect. “I read those in a book. You should check out Clarence’s library, Zoe. If you don’t get Midsummer, there might still be something else you’ll like.”

As soon as I saw her go pale, I knew I’d succeeded in my distraction. Everyone turned from me to her, though Eddie took the longest. I could immediately guess what she was thinking. Exploring a vampire’s garage was akin to going into a crypt, in her eyes. She probably expected to find coffins. I smiled.

“Want me to go with you?” I was kind of curious to see what his “extra storage” contained.

“Would you?” she asked, her head bobbing up and down.

“Of course.” I felt a small surge of warmth at doing this seemingly miniscule thing for her. I hadn’t forgotten her earlier comments about whether we were sisters or colleagues, and comforting her in a scary place was something I used to do when she was little.

As it turned out, though, Clarence’s garage was a complete and total contrast to the Gothic stateliness of the rest of his home. His little‑used Porsche was parked inside it, making Zoe gape. There were gardening tools and home‑improvement tools, a water heater, a workbench, and a whole area dedicated to boxed books. I cringed a little at that last one. Palm Springs might not be as damp as other places, but it was still an unnecessary risk to the books. I helped Zoe find the box of Shakespeare and then left her to make her own choice, warning her to read the backs and not go by length. Glancing at some of Clarence’s other books, I saw a collection of poetry that I pulled out and tucked under my arm for Adrian.

As Zoe continued searching, I found a seat on a stool and made a comfortable footrest out of a bag of gravel. Certain Zoe was engrossed in her task, I covertly took out my cell phone in case I’d missed any messages from Adrian. I hadn’t. I jotted out: Got you a book of poetry. Maybe shorter pieces will be easier than Gatsby.Clinging to hope, I stared at the screen and willed a response to come. Nothing came, and I had to remind myself he was away on business and probably enmeshed in the spirit case.

I shifted my feet, and a few small rocks fell out of the gravel bag. Except, when I took a closer look, I realized it was a bag of rock salt used for de‑icing. Judging from the dirt and grime covering the bag, it didn’t see much use around here. Clarence still got points for preparedness, though. I jumped down and knelt to pick up the pieces that had fallen out. As I held some of the crystals in my hand, revelation hit me like a slap in the face.

Rock salt. Sodium chloride. The most common halide out there, with a cubic crystal system–just like boleite. It was so common, in fact, that it had never even crossed my mind as a candidate for the renegade ink experiments. I’d been focusing on the more exotic. I held up a piece of the salt, watching the way the light sparkled off it. My mind ran down which of its properties I could recall, conducting more comparisons to boleite. Could the answer really be right in front of me? Could my search have such an easy answer?