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Georgie tried not to look at Elf.

“I’d like to know is all,” said Anne. “Wouldn’t you? Not just about nuns. When I go to see the Old Master paintings at the Pall Mall Picture Galleries, I always stare at the women and wonder. Who were you really? What did you want?”

A bee flew around their heads in lazy loops and alighted on a buttercup, buzz fading.

Georgie did look at Elf. They looked at her disheveled hair, and champagne flush, and slightly parted lips.

She turned her eyes to them. Their heart went still.

She didn’t want Georgie. She wanted bones and rusty blades and the letters FASA after her name. But her eyes in that moment played tricks with their heart.

“What cheer, sheep.” Rosalie’s voice broke the spell. “Look, they’re coming down the hill.”

A large flock was heading toward them at an ambling pace.

Anne went up on her elbows to watch. “Should we pretend we’re wolves? Liberate ourselves from the pit?” She stood with another tipsy giggle. “Will they scatter?”

“Don’t torment the sheep,” scolded Rosalie, popping a strawberry into her mouth.

“Sheep like a bit of sport.” Georgie shot to their feet. They grabbed Rosalie’s elbow, hauling her up too.

Anne threw back her head and yipped.

“Not bad,” said Georgie. They looked down at Elf and extended their arm. She hesitated a long moment before she took their hand. When their palms touched, Georgie’s mouth went dry. A spark traveled up their arm.

They pulled Elf upright. They put too much strength into it, pulling her onto her feet, and then nearly off them. She gave a breathless laugh, and for the briefest instant, they felt the press of her body. She half stumbled back.

“Your turn,” they said, still holding her hand. “The game is wolves. Unless you don’t deign to—”

Elf’s howl halted their speech. And their breath.

They stared.

“That was very good,” said Anne. “You have a wild heart. I can hear it.”

Elf glanced at her, bright-eyed, and showed her small, white teeth.

Georgie felt a wave of desire so red-hot there was nothing for it but to howl themself.

“The best yet.” Rosalie clapped.

“But the sheep aren’t scattering.” Anne stamped her foot. “They’re too bold. I must chase them.”

Elf’s face changed. “You mustn’t.”

But Anne was already running.

Georgie howled again and sprang forward, tugging Elf along, racing for the flock.

—

For the past hour, Elfreda hadn’t been thinking clearly. Excitement, champagne, the novelty of so much friendly interest—all of it had blurred her mind.

Now she saw everything as clear as day. She wrested her hand from Georgina’s and lurched to keep her balance, the horizon tilting. Aggrieved bleating filled the air, punctuated by yips and howls.

“Stop!” She put her hands to her mouth and yelled as loud as she could. Georgina was among the sheep, darting every which way, kicking up their skirts and whirling, auburn hair shining like a flame in the sun. Miss Poskitt kept running then doubling over, out of breath or overcome by fits of giggles. Miss Mahomed loped at the perimeter, yelling something that sounded like chuckleheads.

The harassed sheep had begun to mass, climbing each other as they each sought the protection of the center. Georgina let out a particularly earsplitting howl, and all at once, the sheep bolted. A wall of fleece stormed through the meadow.