All night long I’ve been replaying the moment when Ash told me to take that hallway. And I can’t ignore the fact that Stefano had a knife sticking out of his chest when Aarya and Ash had just talked about a missing knife at lunch. She even accused him of stealing it. Not that I would put it past Aarya to lie about the knife for exactly this reason.

“The dining room is being cleaned—” I say.

“They don’t want to give us an opportunity to talk in a group. They’re probably trying to see who searches out who,” Layla says, and spears a roasted potato wedge.

My stomach twists. “Is that why they didn’t question us last night after that guard saw me?”

“I don’t know,” she says, and I can see stress in her expression. “There is a tactic here, I’m just not sure what it is yet.”

I put down my fork. I wish I could erase this whole event from my memory. “Okay, tell me. What do I do if they question me? I haven’t taken deception classes for years like you have. I don’t know what you know.”

Layla makes eye contact with me and pauses. “Exactly.”

“What?”

“Play the ‘I don’t know what’s going on here’ approach. You’ve been using it well so far. At least it will be consistent.” She doesn’t offer any more information.

If I can’t manage to lie to Layla and Ash, then I can’t lie to Blackwood, or whoever is doing the interrogation. They’ll know immediately. But I can’t exactly tell them I found a dead body, either. “Do I say anything about what I saw?”

“If that’s a joke, it’s not funny,” she says, and a bit of anger creeps back into her tone.

I have no idea how I’m going to get through this day or the possible questioning without making myself look guilty. I want to cry every time I think about Stefano lying there in the dark. I push my plate away.

Layla watches me. “I suggest eating. You’ll need energy for whatever is coming next.”

I walk behind Layla as two lines of silent students in black cloaks file through the vine doorway and into the courtyard where the archery class was held. I can’t help but think that it looks like we’re going to a funeral.

“Professor Messer,” Layla whispers to me like a warning.

I immediately translate Messer as German for “knife,” triggering the image of Stefano’s bloody chest to flash through my mind. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second and when I open them again the teacher is looking straight at me.

Professor Messer is a short muscular woman with lots of small scars on her hands.