"Are you ready?" Mother asked. She was smiling as she stood up from her desk, the one where she paid bills, wrote e-mails, and managed the household and its staff.

"Yes! I think? Unless I need to change? Am I dressed okay?"

"Of course." She laughed lightly. "I hope you're hungry."


I practically danced to the foyer as I dreamed of possibilities.

Should I ask if we could take a convertible or choose which Ward we brought as a bodyguard? Speaking of Wards, if Carter and his best friend, Garrett Ward, weren't too busy, maybe they could be persuaded to join us . . . Maybe we'd picnic on the beach. Or Central Park! Stopping at a little deli along the way to pick up sandwiches and cold drinks. Frisbee! Lying next to Garrett on a picnic blanket and staring up at the clouds . . .

"Where are you going, goose?" Mother asked. "We're set up in the solarium."

My heart and hopes crashed. "The solarium?"

I followed her beckoning finger, like I wouldn't believe I'd been duped until I'd entered the room and seen the sunbeams streaming through the glass walls and falling like spotlights on the table set with plates of chicken salad, dishes of strawberries, and a glass pitcher of lemonade.

"But . . . I thought . . ."

She was already seated with her napkin in her lap, smiling up at me with all sorts of expectations in her eyes.

"Mother, it's not that I don't appreciate your effort—I do— it's just . . . This isn't what I expected. I thought I made it clear; I wanted a day off-estate. Maybe Central Park? With Carter and Garrett—"

"Why drive two hours when you can have a picnic here? No need to worry about food spoiling in a hot car or paper plates. Now sit down. Don't these strawberries look divine? Annette got them fresh from the farmers' market this morning."

"You're not—you're not listening! You never—" It was hard to fight off my anger and tears. One or both was going to come spilling out. "I can't do this . . ."

I let the solarium door slam behind me, let out my breath, let the tears leak down my face.

"—so much potential in partnering with crematoriums and morgues. It's not like anyone needs those bodies. Putting a corpse in an urn doesn't help anyone."

I'd been running down the hall, but as soon as I heard Carter's voice, I tried to freeze. Instead I stumbled over the edge of a Persian carpet.

He was standing in the middle of the library, illuminated by squares of light streaming down on him from the windows that alternated with dark paneled bookshelves on the narrow balcony ringing the room. Garrett Ward lounged against the wall beneath the gilt frame of an antique map, his fingers absently tracing the carvings on the side of the marble fireplace. My movement caught both their glances, and Garrett lunged forward as if he would catch me, even though I'd already caught myself. He raised his hand to steady me, then halted with a look of horror. He'd almost touched me.

Oh, how I wished he could.

All I'd wanted was a trip off-estate. A simple picnic. Not to be sent to the solarium like it was a time-out. Not to get caught crying like a five-year-old by Carter, who used to be my best friend but now was off living a life full of adventures and experiences I couldn't be part of. Not to have Garrett, the guy who played the role of prince in all my childhood make-believes and all my current daydreams, stare at me as if I were as delicate as spun sugar.

"You okay, princess? What's wrong?" Garrett's nickname for me was usually more affectionate than judgmental. He wielded it like an unintentional weapon—one word capable of filling my stomach with swarms of butterflies and leaving me incoherent. He was still standing catch-me close and his eyes were sweeping back and forth across my face. I wanted a redo, to have his attention like this at a time when my cheeks weren't wet with tears and dark with embarrassment.

"Nothing. I'm fine." I wiped at my face and faked a smile.

He nodded slowly, allowing me the lie. He clenched his hand as he lowered it and took a step backward, then another. Until he was halfway across the room, gripping the back of the chair he'd put between us.

"What's the matter?" demanded Carter, who was not nearly as tactful or sensitive as Garrett but made up for it in loyalty and humor. "Why were you crying?"

"I had a fight with Mother."

"Trade you. I've been fighting with Father all week." He turned to Garrett. "When we're in charge of the Family, remind me not to be a—"

"Person who doesn't think about where he's standing when he speaks?" Garrett tilted his head at the doors to Father's office, clearly visible across the long room. The gesture made his reddish-brown hair flop forward into his eyes. Garrett wasn't a person who spoke before weighing his words or acted without calculating the effects—his hairstyle was equally deliberate. The rest of his brothers copied their dad and wore their hair cropped short. I loved how his had personality, how it emphasized he wasn't like the rest of them. Al Ward didn't tolerate rebellion, so I knew Garrett had paid some consequence for skipping the buzz cut. Despite this, he'd come home from college with it longer, not shorter.

"What were you fighting about?" I asked. Perhaps it wasn't the best choice of question, but I was desperate to keep their attention.

Carter exhaled his frustration and sank onto one of the leather chairs, thumping his blond head against its high back.

"Everything. Things are changing. It's not just H.R. 197—though if the Organ Act passes, we're so . . . No, it can't pass. No one is going to vote to allow people to sell their body parts." He paused and shook his head, then resumed banging it again. "But everything else. We've got to keep up, and Father refuses to adapt. Do you know how close the Zhus are to perfecting artificial organs?"

Actually I did. People didn't tell me much, but I was really good at listening. And on our estate, there were lots of opportunities to eavesdrop on interesting conversations. "The Vickers are too. Aren't they?"

These were the other major Families. And while there wasn't a Landlow-Zhu-Vickers softball tournament or campfires where our Families shared trade secrets, there were enough whispers, leaks, and rumors to keep us fairly informed about one another's developments. When we were younger, the other Families' kids had come to visit our estate. But they hadn't in years. Not since Carter broke his arm on a dare from Magnolia Vickers; not since Ming Zhu sat miserable and sniffling through an endless afternoon, staring silently at me through crooked glasses. I think Father still talked with the other Families' heads pretty regularly, but the only information I had about them was what I'd overheard—and I'd heard Miles mention "Vickers" and "liver prototype" last week.

"Supposedly." Carter sighed. "So, Pen, why are you and Mother fighting?"

"Because she never takes me seriously! There are important conversations I need to have with her that she won't even let me start."

"Conversations about what?" asked Garrett, then ducked his head and added, "Unless it's too personal."

"It's not," I said quickly, swallowing down the way my heart had leaped to my throat with his question. "And actually, I do want your advice . . . you guys just haven't been around to ask."

They'd come home from their freshman year of college two weeks ago, yet I'd barely seen them besides at meals. Carter was always sequestered with Father and the council or off the estate. Where my brother went, Garrett followed. I'm not sure if it was loyalty or duty.

"I'm not avoiding you," said Carter. "Don't give me that look; I'm really not. Things have been insane. I do feel bad about it. I was just telling Gare we should do something with you."

"Prove it," I challenged.
"What?"
"If you miss me, prove it." At five feet three inches tall there weren't many chances for me to use height to my advantage, but my giant of a brother was seated, so I glared down into eyes as blue as my own. My medical ID bracelet jingled as it slid down my wrist, settling like a shackle. "Take me off-estate. Now. Not next week, not when things are less busy."

"You think I'd put off spending time with my favorite sister?"

"Twenty percent of your summer vacation is already over and this is the longest conversation we've had, so, yes, yes, I do."

Carter laughed. "I know when I'm beat. Let's go."

He stood and headed toward the hall, but neither Garrett nor I moved. I was too busy mentally cycling through Really? Is he serious?

Garrett was frowning. "We can't." My brother and I turned to him. "We have that thing we have to do."

"Ohhh." Carter drew out the word, then sucked an inhale through his teeth. "Right."

"Can't I come?" I begged. "I don't care if that thing is boring. At least it would be a different kind of boring."

"Sorry, Pen." Carter carefully tugged my sleeve—it was what passed for a playful sibling gesture between us since he couldn't give me wedgies or noogies or even poke and pinch me like the siblings I saw on sitcoms. "It's just . . . there's some stuff hap- pening. Big stuff. But it doesn't mean I don't want to hang out with you."

"I am so sick of excuses I could scream!" My voice actually did get rather close to screaming by the end of the sentence.

A door opened and Mother called, "Penny? Why are you yelling? Come back into the solarium so I can talk to you."

"You can't leave me here," I hissed at my brother. "Maybe—"
"No," said Garrett. "Don't even think about it."
I glared at him, but he was giving my brother a look of raised- eyebrow warning and didn't even notice. It was a very Ward look, square-jawed, narrow-lipped, so menacing you forgot how hand- some he normally was. I'd seen this expression on the faces of his older brothers but never him. It erased my annoyance and replaced it with shivers.

"What about this? I'll try and get back early enough to do something. I can't make any promises, but I'll do my best. Okay?" Carter tugged my sleeve again.

"I don't have a choice, do I?" I pulled my shirt out of his grip and crossed my arms.

"Well, you could turn down your two favorite guys . . . but why would you want to?"

"Favorite guys?" I reached over and pinched him.
"Ouch, Pen!"
"Strange. I thought you must be dreaming, but you're actually awake."
Garrett tried to hide his smile.
"If you're done beating me up . . ." Carter made a show of rubbing his arm. "I could really go for some Korean barbecue later. How's that sound?"

"I wouldn't know; I've never had it," I muttered.

"Penelope Maeve!" Mother's voice sounded less patient this time, and closer. "I know you can hear me."

"Well, I'm thinking of a great place in the city . . ." He trailed off and raised his eyebrows.

"New York City?" I squealed. It was my weakness, my favorite daydream. And, curse him, he knew it.

"Yup. So go make nice with Mother, and I'll call you with an update later. Gare, let's roll." Carter strolled out of the room all confidence and swagger. For a moment, I hated him: that he was allowed to come and go as he pleased; that he didn't see the gates surrounding our property as a cage; that he didn't have to go smile, apologize, beg for a night of maybe freedom.

Garrett paused for a second after Carter was gone. He stepped around the chairs and couch and tables to stand in front of me. So close I could touch him, or he could touch me . . . except, he couldn't. He grinned in a way that made his almost-green eyes glow, in a way that made my years-old crush swell in my chest, my cheeks flush, and heart race. "Just so you know, I want to work on that favorite-guy thing . . ."

I nodded and bit down on my tongue so I didn't confess how lonely I was when they left for school without me.

Mother appeared in one doorway as Garrett slipped out the other. "I've been calling you. Have you calmed down enough to be reasonable yet?"

"Calm" was the last word I'd use to describe the emotions cycloning through me—but I needed to "make nice" if I wanted to go off-estate with Carter—NYC!—if he had the time to take me.

"Yes, Mother," I said meekly. "Is the picnic still set up? I'd love to try some of those strawberries."

It's not like time ever moved quickly on the estate, but while waiting to maybe leave, it ceased to move at all. I gritted my teeth while Mother showed me swatch books for new library curtains. I tried on dozens of outfits, creating a mountain of discarded dresses and tank tops on the floor of my closet. I resisted the urge to text Garrett and Carter every five minutes—once an hour, however, was completely reasonable.

And when Carter responded: Pick U up @ 6, I shrieked with

glee—causing Mother to rush into my bedroom, breathless with alarm. I begged, pleaded, called Carter and made him talk to her, and finally went limp with relief when she said, "Yes, as long as . . ."

Her list of rules and warnings was endless, but I pretended to listen as I second-guessed my appearance and watched out the window for Carter's car.

When I caught the first glimpse of the black Mercedes, I blew Mother a kiss, grabbed my purse, and ran outside.

Garrett got out to open the car door for me. I studied him while I went down the steps and walked across the driveway. The sun was reflecting off his hair, making it look more red than auburn. It was long enough that the ends curled. I wanted to keep staring and list the ways his first year at college had changed him—sharpened the line of his jaw and filled out his neck and chest so he mirrored the muscular bulk of his older brothers— but I was out of footsteps.

I caught him watching me too. Making me so glad I'd enlisted Caroline's help in selecting an outfit. She was a nurse but also the closest thing I had to a friend, and she'd teased me about my brother tagging along on my "date." She'd vetoed my capris and skirts and thumbs-upped the yellow sundress with white eyelet trim. The sundress that made Garrett exhale slowly as I stepped close.

"You look . . ." He swallowed. "Really nice."

I smiled, and he did too. The smile I remembered from days of board game marathons and crossword puzzle races. From the times when he'd sneak away from games of manhunt with his brothers and Carter to come tell me about his day and ask about mine. From before he was too busy. Back then, his smiles were innocent—they hadn't made my blood run hot—and his eyes weren't so intense.

Carter beeped the horn, and we both jumped. "Let's go," he shouted.

Garrett dropped his gaze and patted the car's roof. "Your chariot." He waited for me to slip into the backseat and click my seat belt before shutting my door.