Esme couldn’t focus in art class on Monday. She was still reeling from the oracle’s revelations about the boy standing just a few feet away. Every so often, Miss Merrow would come round, frown at the blank page before Esme, and offer a few words of inspiration. Thus far, she’d failed to inspire Esme to even pick up her pencil.
Esme could only stare at Seth, who was gluing shards of broken mirror to a black canvas, creating a shattered skull.
How did I never notice how much he looks like Mare?
The bell rang, and the classroom emptied out for lunch. Seth lingered, packing away his paints. When he was done, he cast a furtive glance at Esme and opened his mouth, as if to say something to her. Her features remained immobile. He shrugged, tucked his bag under his arm, and made to leave.
‘Set
