“Hey, Ash,” Layla says, holding up the braided pine needles. “One to zero.”

I LIE ON my bed and pick at the end of my braid. The candle on my bedside table flickers, causing the shadows on my ceiling to move around like cartoon ghosts.

“It just doesn’t make sense,” I say for the second time to no one.

Dad must have known about this school, because as far as I can tell you’re either in the know or you’re absolutely not. He got me in after the cutoff age. Plus, this is the place he chose above all others to send me to while helping Aunt Jo.

He said, I promise you that you know exactly as much as will keep you safe. Do I know something I don’t think I know? It’s possible this is a test, an extended version of one of our outdoor strategy games, but I can’t shake the feeling that I should be worried—worried about Aunt Jo and my dad, and very possibly about being here in general.

I roll onto my side. When Blackwood suggested it in her office, I didn’t think it was likely Dad went here, but I’m not so sure anymore. And if he went here, then does that mean all his stories about growing up in Maine and being your typical country boy were basically bunk? Has my dad been lying to me my entire life? The thought makes my stomach do a small flip. But I’ll take the Maine lie any day as long as what he told me about fixing everything with Aunt Jo is true. There are a lot of things I can deal with, but my family being in serious danger when I have no way of getting to them quickly is not one of them.

I get out of bed and open my door. Layla’s on the light gray velvet couch, reading a book with her legs tucked under her. I glance at the clock, which says 11:50 p.m., and head for the door. If I’m going to sneak out tomorrow night, I might as well get a sense of what kind of obstacles I’m in for.

My hand touches the iron latch.

Layla looks up from her book with its worn fabric cover and faded gold lettering. “It’s past curfew.”

“I’m just going to step into the hallway.”

Layla shakes her head and her hair swishes like inky water. “Not unless you want a mark against you.”

“A mark?”

“For being out after curfew, for trying to pick a lock to a restricted area, for opening a curtain at night and letting light out, et cetera. Get three and you get a punishment of their choosing.”

“Like what?”

“Depends on the person. But they’re always terrible.”

I consider telling her that her brother suggested we meet in the vine courtyard after curfew, an offense probably worth twenty marks.

“Layla?”

She marks her page with her finger. “Yes?”