“I’ll see you in your room, later, then,” he says, hurrying off before I can ask him more about this Kowana Yechi thing.

The room Bri and I are ushered off to is farthest from the entry we came through, which I don’t like. Being near an exit is just a habit. Something I strongly prefer. The damp air reeks of musk, and somewhere in the distance droplets of condensation plop plop on the ground. The hallways twist as people duck into rooms out of sight. We follow behind a Gahlee man with kind eyes.

On either side of the corridor, beds protrude from the wall; they are flat pallets of metal wedged into the walls, three or four stacked as tall as the ceiling, like floating bunk beds. As small as our numbers are now, there’s still not a ton of room for everyone. Not like their home before, in Yiyo.

“You’re in here, Jelani.” The robed man bows, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I hate when they do that. I don’t deserve special treatment. Especially after what I’ve done.

“Thanks.”

The room they give us is a moderate size, dirt walls, paved floor. There’s a small bed, which is basically like a raised pallet on the floor with a thin blanket. Outside, the shuffle of footsteps and chatter are constant. Bri and I sit on the thin bedding. I huddle over the stack of books she found during the burial ceremony. And she dives neck deep into her bag of gadgets, immediately trying to fuse two parts together.

I shift in my seat and close a book that looked promising but ended up being about macronomins, a type of magic that converts water to light. I pull another on top of me, but it’s apparently full of recipes. I don’t even flip past the first page. Another. This one’s full of spells, and I run a finger down the gritty page. Dextrontum. I flip past a section on the properties of magic that deal with chemical energy. “The Twelve Essential Plants for Potion Making.” And again, more pages. “Toxicity in Potions,” “Imbuing Inanimate Objects,” “Imbuing Living Organisms,” “Shifting Time and Space,” “Magical Matter and Why It Matters.” This book literally has everything. It has to be here somewhere. I turn and turn until my neck aches and my legs go numb under me. I find nothing by the time I reach the end and slap the thick back cover closed.

“Ugh.”

I crack my neck and pull open another book. Then another. And another, until the stack of “not it” books is as tall as my head. A yawn scratches my throat, but I refuse to give it space. I don’t have time to sleep. Every second we’re not working toward getting our magic back is a moment the Chancellor has to root us out and kill us all.