For a second she looks confused. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“The truth. Why would our parents send us to an isolated school where all the rules have some imminent-danger theme?” I dislike the disorientation of not knowing where I am, but not as much as I can’t stand the idea that my dad withheld information from me.

“There’s less danger here than anywhere else,” Layla says like I’ve offended her last sensibility.

“Not from where I’m standing.”

She leans toward me and levels her voice. “I told you to stop playing this innocent game.”

“It’s no game.” I hesitate. My instinct is to double down. “I’m sorry you’re annoyed, but since my dad isn’t here to grill—”

“Lower your voice.” Her tone is commanding and fiery. She looks behind her down the empty hall and pushes me back with surprising force into the stairwell we just came out of. “Maybe this isn’t an act. Maybe you really don’t know. But stupidity isn’t the answer.” Her voice is barely above a whisper and is flat-out accusatory.

“Why would you think my questions are an act? What on earth would I gain from it?”

“My answer’s still a resounding no,” she hisses. “By referencing your father, and only your father, you just told me that it’s likely your mother is dead. Now I know something about you, combined with the fact that you were clearly raised in America, based on your vernacular. The clothing you arrived in last night suggests you live in a northern climate, and based on the style of clothing, I’d say a rural area rather than an urban one. Your features suggest you’re originally from western Europe; I would guess southern Italian because of your hair and eyes. That narrows you down to only a handful of Families you could be related to. Should I go on?”

I stare at her. Who, or what, is this girl? “Families? What families?”

Her eyes widen and her hands clench. “You’re loud and you’re reckless and there is absolutely no chance I’m giving you information. Good play, but you’ve lost.” Her words are biting.

“Wait—”

“I’m done with this conversation,” she says. “I can’t believe Headmaster Blackwood matched us as roommates.” She walks away from me at full speed.

Damn. I’m striking out here. Charm doesn’t work; being pushy doesn’t work. I raise my hands in surrender. “Look, I’m really not trying to piss you off. Honest. My best friend always says I push so hard that sometimes I push people right over a cliff. I get that you don’t trust me. I’ll do my best to chill out and stop attacking you with questions. But I’m not playing you and I don’t know what I’ve ‘lost.’ ”

Before she can respond, the doors around us creak open. Students pour into the hallway, all wearing the same clothes and cloaks we are. Did a class just end? I didn’t even hear a bell. Where I’m used to shouts and laughter and pushing between classes, there are only hushed conversations and deliberate movements.