His smile widens but looks forced. “Exactly. I’m surprised Layla was talking about me; it’s unlike her.”

You can say that again. “She wasn’t. It’s just that Ash by itself isn’t an Egyptian name. And since Layla’s name is Egyptian, I assumed that yours would be, too. I mean, you two are brother and sister, right?” I don’t feel the same thrill I usually do when I do this. Instead, I get the sense that I’ve said something terribly wrong.

Ash looks at Layla and not at me. “You told her we’re Egyptian?”

The we’re tells me I’m also right about them being siblings.

Layla lifts her chin. “Obviously not.”

They look at each other for a few long seconds. They don’t say a word, but even I can tell they’re communicating in some way by the intensity of the looks they share.

Ash shifts his gaze back to me. “I have time this afternoon. Maybe I could join your tour or even take over for Layla if she needs a break?”

My instinct is to say no, apologize to Layla, and promise I’ll stop talking if she just won’t pass me off to him.

Thankfully, Layla shakes her head. “You know she’s my responsibility,” she says, and I’m grateful—not that being called someone’s responsibility is a compliment.

“Well, then, I guess I’ll just see you both at lunch. Oh, and Layla…” He holds up a small braid made of pine needles.

Layla checks the now-empty pocket of her cloak while Ash grins victoriously. “Five, four,” she says with a hint of annoyance. “You win.”

Ash gives us both a small bow as he slips back into the river of students, who behave more like spies than high schoolers. Up close his intensity is almost overwhelming, but as he walks away I find that it’s equally hard not to watch him. I’m not sure if I’m intrigued or intimidated.

I TAKE A seat on one of the maroon couches in the assessment office, which is mostly lit by the glow of flames coming from a large fireplace. Portraits of sour-looking old men and women cover the walls, and the ceiling is crossed with wooden beams. I drag my boot along a faded rug and look out the tall, narrow window, which reveals nothing but thick tree branches.

Dr. Conner places a silver tray bearing steaming-hot bread, butter, and jam on the table in front of me. My stomach rumbles in response. There are few things in the world better than fresh bread. And because of the drugging, I’m not even sure how long it’s been since I last ate.

“Now, November, I’m going to ask you a series of questions,” Dr. Conner says as he lowers himself onto the couch across from me. His accent sounds British, and he wears a black blazer similar to Blackwood’s, only his has a maroon pocket square. If I had to guess, he’s about my dad’s age or maybe even a few years younger.