I squint at her. “How would I put my family in danger here? This place is supposed to be the opposite of dange—”

“I also understand that you’ve been quite sheltered,” Blackwood says, flat out ignoring my question and giving me a disapproving stare. “But time will correct that.”

I don’t respond because I’m not sure what she’s referring to and I’m not sure I want to know. Maybe she’s right about the disorientation, or maybe it’s this conversation that makes me feel like I’m upside down.

“The second rule forbids you to leave the campus,” Blackwood continues. “This institution is located deep in a forest that’s rigged with traps. Going beyond the perimeter walls is not only unwise, but extremely perilous.”

I sit up. Now, this is the kind of school perk Dad sold me on—tree obstacle courses, complex puzzles, knife-throwing tricks. If this place turns out to be as Robin Hood adventurous as it is creepy, I guess I can forgive him for the long-distance travel, and her for the possible drugging. “What kind of traps? Has anyone ever made it through them?”

“No. Never,” she says as though she’s answered this question countless times and it never stops being exhausting. My eyes drift momentarily above her head to the maroon-and-silver crest on the wall, under which I read the Latin phrase Historia Est Magistra Vitae. Before I can work out the meaning, Blackwood starts talking again.

“The third rule is that if you harm another student, we adhere to an eye-for-an-eye punishment system. All sparring must be confined to the classroom under faculty supervision.”

The momentary excitement I had over the booby-trapped forest disappears, and I feel my expression drop into a frown. Dad said that sending me here was only a precaution, that he needed to be with Aunt Jo for a few weeks, that he couldn’t watch us both at the same time. He told me to trust him. I just assumed he was being overly protective like usual. But if there’s danger here, then the whole thing reeks. A tiny knot forms in my stomach, not the type that overwhelms you in the moment, but the type that lurks and grows in the dark, quiet moments when you’re by yourself.

I look again from the blotted-out windows to the guarded door. “Isn’t that a given…the no-hurting-people bit?”

“There have been an unusual number of fatalities here in recent years. So no, it’s not a given,” she says like it’s nothing more important than Taco Tuesday in the cafeteria.

My throat suddenly goes dry. “What do you mean, fatalities? How intense are the classes here? What exactly are people dying from?”

Blackwood looks at me like I’m a lost puppy that she has no intention of petting. “We do not offer basic studies like other preparatory schools; what we offer is a great deal more. The Academy builds on your skill sets and on your individual strengths. For instance, knife throwing is not simply about precision. It is a skill that is practiced while in motion and under duress. And deception is honed so that you may both read it in others and deploy it as second nature. Instead of languages, we offer an accents class and a cultural norms elective to allow you to better move between countries without your origins giving you away. It’s a privilege to attend this school, not a right. Our professors are of the highest caliber and our students are hand-picked from all over the world. There are eighteen professors in residence, and you, November, make our one hundredth student. Every spot in this school is coveted and every student here knows that.” Her tone sounds like a warning, like I will be out on my butt if I make a wrong move. “You’ll need to undergo a psychological and physical examination before we decide which classes will best suit you.” She leans back in her chair, the candles in the candelabra on her desk casting shadows across her face.