Clariel’s eyes narrowed and she felt the anger rising. Her right hand was halfway to her sleeve before she even knew it, fingers reaching for the hilt of her knife. She stopped the movement and breathed in very slowly through her nose, counting silently to three, and out her mouth, counting again. As Gully’s book had told her, she imagined the anger blowing out with the air.

‘I suppose you could say he was very lucky,’ said Aronzo, still smiling.

‘I suppose you could,’ replied Clariel coldly. Inside, her mind was putting pieces together and not liking what she made from them. Denima had not asked about Belatiel, and Clariel was sure she would have done so if she’d known he was injured. Clearly Belatiel’s presence at the supposed attack was not part of the general rumour, though it would be now, since everyone else in the room was watching and listening intently.

So how did Aronzo know Belatiel was wounded, and that it was in the shoulder?

‘Please allow me to take my seat. I believe we are about to begin our lesson.’

Aronzo arched his eyebrows in mock surprise.

‘So keen to learn, Lady Clariel? I had not thought you so intent on your lessons. It gives me hope.’

‘Hope for what?’ spat Clariel, the anger rising again, till she clamped down on it and resumed the steady breathing, slowly in and slowly out, slowly in and slowly out.

‘Hope is a wonderful thing,’ said Aronzo. He turned and walked away, only a few steps, before looking back over his shoulder. ‘We can discuss it at dinner tonight.’

‘I’ll be otherwise occupied!’ said Clariel, louder than she had intended, causing some gasps and titters among the rest of the class. Clariel ignored them, sat down at the nearest desk and selected a quill from the three or four that had been cut and put there by the Academy servants earlier, trying to stay calm as she inked it and tested it on a piece of scrap paper.

My temper is my own and answers to me, she wrote. My temper is my own and answers to me.

She was writing the phrase for the third time when the teacher came in, a middle-aged man who had ink stains on the sleeves of his shirt, and a pleasant but slightly absent face. Clariel noted he had a Charter mark on his forehead not very well concealed by the same sort of paste Valannie applied expertly to Clariel’s skin. He stopped to introduce himself to Clariel as he went past. She flipped over the piece of paper as he bowed, so he couldn’t read it.

‘Master Kaernon,’ he said. ‘Scribe by profession, teacher upon occasion. Welcome to the Academy, Lady Clariel.’