Franc curled his lip at their retreating figures. He didn’t like being laughed at, even if that laughter was kindly meant. Effie soothed his offended dignity with an absent scratch.

“Your exploits are legendary among the girls,” Nell said.

“I daresay,” Effie replied dryly. It was those very exploits that had earned her a reputation for chaos.

“Do you remember the time you stole all the sugar from the pantry and replaced it with salt?”

“How could I forget?” Effie had eaten most of the sugar, making herself sick in the process. She’d had to spend two nights in the infirmary.

“Or when you smuggled that aged dog into the dormitories and persuaded the rest of us to help you hide it and care for it?”

“Dear old Max,” Effie murmured. He had ultimately found a good home with Miss Sengupta, one of the Academy’s visiting instructors.

“And what about the duel you fought in the forest with that vile farm boy from the village? Foils at dawn, or some scandalous thing.” Nell chuckled. “You were always creating disorder for poor Miss Corvus to put right. No one else has ever vexed her so.”

“I’m not particularly proud of my behavior then. I’d prefer the girls didn’t know of me at all rather than know me for my worst conduct.”

“They know you as the best and brightest among us.”

Effie found the prospect of that no more reassuring.

She’d spent thirteen years at the Academy. More than a decade, marked by rebellion and catastrophe. Her triumphs at languages, fencing, and self-defense paled in comparison to the cloying sense of alienation that had daily eaten away at her soul. In the end, not even Nell’s friendship had managed to blunt the pain of it. Effie had never felt she belonged here. She’d never felt she belonged anywhere.

“I was neither the best, nor the brightest,” she said. “I was only the first.”

“Yes, but you went to Paris. Your life has been something for them to aspire to.” Nell guided Effie up the stairs, past the student dormitories and onward to the staff rooms.

The third door at the end of the hall had a painted placard hanging on it that proclaimed its occupant: Miss P. Trewlove.

“You have a private room,” Effie said rather unnecessarily.

Nell unlocked the door. She ushered Effie into the dark, quiet chamber. “So might you have had if you’d remained.”

“Have you decided to remain?” Effie asked. “Your five years are nearly up. You might go anywhere.”