I take pictures of all kinds of documents, but my anxiety is starting to spike, knowing that Michael could return at any moment. There are a lot of letters stamped with wax seals of a book that has the scales of justice growing up from between the pages––the emblem of the Sophists, Michael’s guild. Thankfully, all of the seals are already broken, so I’m able to easily photograph their contents without too much fuss. I record a video flipping through his notebook in case there’s something useful in there. I’ll check later. Gotta keep moving.

My heart is pounding so loudly in my ears that I’m worried I won’t hear if someone’s coming. There’s a slim drawer underneath the center of the desk that I almost miss. When I open it, it’s empty except for the large key that Headmaster Bloche had given to Michael yesterday. It’s as long as the length of my hand, fingertip to wrist, and heavy. There’s an engraving of the Vitruvian Man Genesis emblem, and the teeth of the key look incredibly intricate. I snap a photo, put it back, and close the drawer.

I move on from the desk to a tall cabinet full of files about what looks to be other recruits, or potential recruits. Snap, snap, snap. The next shelf is all provincial vinyl records. Very cool but not useful.

I yelp as I hear a door slam somewhere in the hallway. It’s probably not Michael, but I’ve officially reached my limit on how much apprehension I can hold inside my body. I’ll look more the next time I’m here to borrow the phone.

I take a few deep breaths before I casually walk out of Michael’s office, as if I have every right to be here, because I do.

I’m dizzy with adrenaline as I attempt to navigate the labyrinth of corridors back to my room in the Winter wing, but I find myself totally lost in an unfamiliar hallway. There’s fragrant wisteria hanging from the ceiling, and an impressionist-style mural of a garden extends across the wall. I turn to retrace my steps and then recognize the stiff leather and shiny silver of the Avant Guard as two soldiers round the corner.

Gah. Why now?

I try to saunter past them while looking as innocent as possible, but it doesn’t work.

“Oi, what’s your name?” one guard says. He has a sharp nose and gray hair that doesn’t match his youthful appearance.

“Ada.” I smile, not stopping or even slowing.

“That’s the one,” the other guard, stocky and blond, growls.

“Are you sure?” They pause, but I keep walking, and they don’t prevent me from passing through the next more familiar hall and into the bright open air of the Equinox.

The one? What’s that supposed to mean?