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 ...