“But when?” a voice at the back of the crowd shouts.

“The challenges are unique to each team—specifically designed to test your strengths and expose your weaknesses. You’ll receive them as soon as they’re ready.”

“Maybe all of our maneuvering to get each bone magic won’t matter,” Tessa whispers.

“I had the same thought,” I say. If the challenges are individually designed, we may have earned ourselves a more difficult set of tasks.

Tessa’s fingers twine together. “Let’s find the others. It’s possible someone else on our team has our box.”

My gaze flicks to the desk at the front of the library. “Go ahead. I need to take care of something first and then I’ll catch up with you.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, but her eyes are already on the grand double doors and I can tell she won’t feel settled until she finds out if we’ve gotten our instructions yet.

“Yes, go ahead. I won’t be long.”

“See you soon.” Tessa squeezes my elbow and scurries away.

The information desk is small and curved, with a spiral pattern carved on the front that encircles the librarian like the shell of a gastropod. She even looks a little like a snail, with a pair of spectacles perched on top of her head like small antennae.

She leans forward as I approach. “What can I do for you?”

“I wondered … is there any way to access the records of past students?”

The librarian frowns. She retrieves the spectacles from the top of her head and settles them across the bridge of her nose. The frames are made of bone—magic, then—and I wonder if they help her see clearly in more ways than one.

My hands begin to sweat.

“That’s an odd request.” She folds her hands together in front of her and studies me, clearly waiting for me to explain myself.

“My mother was a student here, and she recently died.” I tug on my earlobe, my restless fingers longing for something to occupy them. The words are still hard to say. “I was hoping to contact her former classmates so I could record their memories of her. For a keepsake.”

The librarian’s face softens. “I’m so sorry for your loss. But that would be highly unusual. I can’t just give out contact information of old students. Perhaps you could talk to some of her old friends. See if they can help you?”

“There’s no one to ask,” I tell her, “or I would have tried that first.”

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, dear, but it’s just not possible. It would violate their privacy. Even if I’m sure many of them would be sympathetic to your cause.”

My fingernails dig into my palms. I have to convince her to help me, but I don’t know what else to do. She seems resolved.