I WAIT FOR WILLOW in the orchard again, same spot by the plum tree. There’s this light drizzle, barely visible in the dark, but I feel it dampening my nose and eyelids, the leaves offering little protection. Nate and I decided I should meet Willow alone this time—in this scene there’s just too much movement for Nate to remain hidden. But he paced the route through with me only moments ago, reminding me of my lines and when I should say them. I can’t help smiling, thinking of him as he turned his slight body toward the stables and ran his hands up and down his back so it looked like he was kissing someone. “Ooh, Willow …” he said in this silly girly voice, which I prayed sounded nothing like me.

I lean against the plum tree and try to make my body look lean and sexy, but the nerves flicker in my stomach and I struggle to keep my limbs from fidgeting. Tonight is the first-kiss scene; hopelessly romantic and beautiful. I should feel excited, but I just feel terrified. What if he doesn’t kiss me? Or worse, what if he does and it makes him puke? And I just can’t get that damned gherkin-tongue out of my head. All my insecurities hover in my peripheral vision like fat droning insects. Quickly, I recap my lines in my head, the lines that led up to that first, perfect kiss.

WILLOW

I’ve never met anyone like you before.

ROSE

An Imp, you mean?

WILLOW

No, anyone so free.

ROSE

I’m not free. I’m a slave. Your father’s slave, to be exact.

WILLOW

I know, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that … It’s just, I don’t know, it probably sounds stupid me saying this, but I wish I could be more like you.

ROSE

(cups his face in her hands)

You can be.

And then he kissed her.

Passionate. Heart-wrenching. Perfect.

But the reality is I’ve been sharing a moldy toothbrush with Nate for three days, and my mouth tastes of feet.

I hear Willow’s step before I see him, fast but not urgent. My pulse quickens and the taste of feet grows stronger. He steps through the arch looking even more beautiful than usual, the moon illuminating the fineness of his features. He sees me and chuckles, stroking the underbelly of his chin with the petals of the rose. And then, just like he should, he delivers his opening line: “Rose … You look like a Rose.”

My fingers tremble, but I force my voice to remain strong, my words to remain true to the script. “And what does a Rose look like?”

He laughs. “Prickly.” He crosses the remainder of the orchard and we sit side by side beneath the plum tree. I sit on my hands so they don’t fiddle, and I study his profile—so perfect he almost looks like a CGI prince from a kids’ film. I bite my lower lip and suddenly I’m very aware of the skin on my chest growing hot under my overalls.

His eyelashes beat slightly as he contemplates the stars. “I love the estate at night.”

“I only really see it at night.”

He turns to face me, his skin already dewy in the rain. “So you sleep in the day, right?”

“Mostly.”

A puzzled look crosses his uniform features. “Do you sleep at the estate, or do you catch that big old car thing back to the city?”

I laugh, playfully tapping his shoulder just like in canon. It feels kind of flirty and a bit alien, but I say my line all the same. “Big old car thing? You mean the bus?”

“Is that what it’s called?”

“You’re so privileged.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ignorant.”

We stare at each other. The strength of his gaze almost robs me of my next line. “I tend to sleep here at the manor. I don’t have a family to return to, and I avoid crossing the border if I can—the guards can be a bit rough.”

He touches my arm. “Have they ever hurt you?”

I recall the acrylic screen and the steel-gray eyes. I know I should stay on-script, just reply, Not yet, like Rose did, but I feel this anger welling inside me like something dark and evil, and I can’t seem to stop it pushing up my gullet and forcing out my own words. “If you try to sneak into the Pastures, the guards shoot you on sight, did you know that? They just line you up and gun you down like you’re nothing.” I can’t believe I just said this, that I would risk deviating from canon when there’s so much at stake.

He looks a little taken aback. “But they need to stop rogue Imps crossing the border.”

Willow knows about the decontamination block? He knows and yet he does nothing? Just stick to canon, Violet, I think. But the anger reaches a new level, transforming to rage, and I simply can’t stop the words—hot and pleading—pouring from my mouth. “You know about this? You know about this and you haven’t tried to stop it?” I know I should just get back on-script, I know I should just focus on the end result of returning home, but I just can’t get that paper doll chain out of my head—the way it crumpled to the floor like used-up newspaper. I shake his hand from my arm.

Now it’s his turn to look angry. “Look, Rose, until I met you … I never really thought about it … it’s just the way it’s always been.”

“Not always,” I snap.

He suddenly looks very deflated. His beautiful features sag and he places the rose on his lap. “I’m sorry, you’re right, of course.”

I look at his soft eyes, his look of earnestness, and the anger fades. I need to get the scene back on track. So I take a deep breath and, true to canon, leap to my feet. “Come on, I’m sick of this bloody orchard.”

I begin to run through the trees, batting the branches with my hands as I run. In the film, Rose looked so free-spirited, but I think I just look clumsy. One of the boughs smacks me across the face. Thankfully, Willow finds this hilarious, his laughter spurring me on.

The orchard comes to an end and we burst onto a meadow, silver beneath the moon. Already, he streaks ahead, aiming for the gate at the far side. I focus on closing the gap, head down, arms and legs pumping, chest heaving. It feels so exhilarating. The ground yields, and for a brief moment I think I might slip, but I steady myself and continue to climb. I glance up to see the gap closing. I can make out the feathered point at the nape of his neck. I reach out, so close I swear I can feel the heat of his body beneath my fingertips. But he must sense me and zips forward. My hands fall empty through the air.

We slam—laughing and panting—into the gate. The wood groans beneath our weight and tries to push us back like a springboard. He has this amazing smile.

“You’re fast.” I lean on my knees to catch my breath.

“All Gems are fast.”

I feel the cool night air against my neck as my hair falls forward and my overalls slip back, revealing the upper nodules of my spine. Just like in the book.

His breath gradually slows as he traces each tattooed digit with a finger. A wave of tremors spreads beneath my skin—concentric circles in a lake.

“What does it mean?” he finally asks.

I recite my line with ease. “The first number is the city. So the seven means I live in London. The next two numbers show which estate I work at—all of the Imps working here start with 753.”

“And the 811?”

“That’s my number. The eight hundred and eleventh Imp to work at the manor.” I smile. “They know how to make a girl feel special.”

He presses his palm into my neck, blocking out the numbers. I absorb the clammy warmth of his skin. Willow is touching my neck. I feel a bolt of excitement.

“It’s just ink,” he says. “A collection of shapes—it only means what we say it means.”

We smile at each other. Then, following the script, I give him a gentle nudge. “Enough stalling, Gem.”

I recall Rose vaulting over the gate in one smooth action, but I suspect I would fall flat on my face, so instead I just climb over it. I try my best to seem feisty and brave, but my boots squelch in the mud and I feel like a bit of a fraud. I begin to run again, hoping I’ll get enough of a head start to make sure we end up at the stables.

“Not fair,” he calls after me. “I don’t know the estate like you do.”

“You’re the superhuman,” I call over my shoulder.

I see the stables and feel an enormous sense of relief, followed quickly by the realization that this is it—he’s about to kiss me. I order myself to stay focused; I’m so close to pulling this off. I slip down the side of the stables, hogweed and brambles catching at my ankles, causing me to trip and bump into the wood. He stumbles behind me, and we both begin to giggle, waking up the horses.

I reach the back of the structure and lean into the planks, grateful for the rest, my chest rising and falling from all the exertion. The scent of pony kibble and horsehair mingles with our sweat. He leans beside me, still giggling, a piece of hogweed clinging to his ankle. I can feel the cords of his arm muscles as they push against my overalls. I’m only moments away from the first kiss. My mouth suddenly feels like it’s stuffed with cardboard—shoe boxes, judging from the taste. God, I would kill for a breath mint.

He turns to me and pushes my hair from my face. It kind of catches in my mouth and pulls my lip to the side. “Agh,” I mumble.

But he just laughs. “I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

I take a moment to study his features. A collection of shapes. This close, I can see the trellis of pores and the fine covering of tiny hairs on his skin.

I untangle my hair from my mouth. “An Imp, you mean?”

“No, anyone so free.”

He toys with the back of my ear and I can’t help turning into his hand, it feels so large, so solid, against my cheek. Willow is touching my ear. I focus on the perfect bow of his upper lip. “I’m not free. I’m a slave. Your father’s slave, to be exact.”

His hand drops to his side, weighed down with shame. “I know, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that … It’s just, I don’t know, it probably sounds stupid me saying this, but I wish I could be more like you.”

This is it. He’s about to kiss me. I cup his flawless face in my palms and force his eyes to meet mine. I think my heart may have stopped beating, just turned to grit in my chest. But I deliver my line with confidence. “You can be.”

He stares at me for a moment. I anticipate his sudden movement, the taste of his lips against mine. I get this unexpected shudder in my windpipe, this feeling like I’ve just come inside from a snowstorm, my skin hot and cold at the same time. I let my eyelids close. This is it.

But he remains still, the kiss never arrives.

Instead, he says, “It’s my coming-of-age ball tomorrow.”

He’s moved straight on with the lines, he’s left out the kissing bit. My heart jump-starts and my brain fills with all those insecurities: Is it because my breath smells? Is my hair too messy? Is it because I went off-script and talked about the decontamination process? Maybe I’m just not good enough.

But I stick to my lines. “Yeah?”

Maybe I should kiss him? But what if he doesn’t want me to? He’s so tall, I might miss and just kiss his chin. The four-letter word fills my head, all angular and spiked.

But he just smiles, completely oblivious to my inner turmoil. “Are you waitressing at it?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll probably have to dance with every Gem socialite in the region … but I’ll save the last dance for you.”

“I’d like that,” I reply, my outer voice on autopilot, my inner voice still screaming profanities.

“I better head back,” he says.

I realize I’m still clutching his face. I try to let go casually so he barely notices, but my palms kind of stick to his chin. “OK, then.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow? Yeah?” He flashes his beautiful smile.

“I’ll wear my dancing shoes.”

He kisses me on the cheek. On the cheek. And then he leaves.