“Why? What’s so wrong with a cup of coffee? Nobody else bothers to talk to me.”

“I really do believe you are a babe in the woods sometimes.” He took two gliding strides, cocked

his head like he expected me to follow. “You’re svetocha, Milady. One girl, out of a total of two, in

a school full of restless, hungry boys raised and schooled to be Kouroi. And . . .” A quick look

around, his fine hair ruffling. The room had emptied. “Wherever you cast your glances, there will

be trouble. Some have used that type of trouble to further their own ends.”

Did he mean that I’d already made trouble, or something else? Guess which one my money was laid

on.

“You mean Anna,” I said flatly.

He gave me one of those Significant Glances a guy gives when he thinks you’re dumb but you’ve

hit on something anyway. “I mean that your time is more precious than you know. Especially if they

hold Trials.”

Trials. I’d finally found out what that meant, even though Benjamin didn’t want to talk about it.

Where they slug it out over who gets to be in a particular group—in this case, one of my bodyguards. I didn’t like the notion. I mean, I can see the benefit of someone who will successfully beat

the shit out of someone else as a bodyguard, but . . . it just didn’t seem right.

Besides, someone had tried to kill me in a Schola before. Several times. What’s to say that whoever

won the Trials wouldn’t be someone who would try to put me in front of the suckers again? Or even

. . .

Once I started going down that mental road, I started wondering about Benjamin and his entire

crew. What if one of them had a reason to hate me? I saw them every day. Their rooms were right

next to mine.

I ate lunch with them, for Christ’s sake.

“I’m not looking to hold Trials.” I hitched my bag up on my shoulder and headed for the door, my

empty latte cup crumpling in one fist.

He got there first, swept the heavy door open, and glanced out into the hall. “Very wise of you. Or

not.”

“My thoughts exactly.” I pushed past him, out into the hall, and stamped away.

It was going to be one of those days.

Of all my classes, Basic Firearm Safety was probably my favorite. Maybe because the first time I’d

shown up, the lean dark unsmiling instructor—Babbage—had asked me what I knew about guns. I

played a little dumb, asked him what he meant, and he smirked and showed me a table with a range

of handguns, four different rifles, an AK-47, and a crossbow. There was ammo set off to the side,

and he asked me if I had any idea what to do with any of it.