Sophie frowned and went back to her list. “Actually, I don’t care what you think.”

Rafal was about to say something, but Sophie preempted him. “You put me in charge, didn’t you?” she clipped, without looking up. “If you have doubts, then replace me.”

She heard the young School Master sigh, but he spoke nothing more.

The truth was, deep down, Sophie wished she could feel bad for her fellow classmates. But she felt nothing. It was as if a part of her heart had simply switched off. She didn’t know when it had happened. When Tedros’ kiss turned rotten? When she learned Agatha had used her to get closer to her prince? Or was it when she finally looked at herself in Evil’s crown and felt strong and in control for the first time in her life? Perhaps it was all of these and more . . . a lifetime of rejections by Good, casing her heart inch by inch until it sealed to stone.

And indeed, with each passing day, she noticed her skin was paler, her voice steelier, her muscles harder, with her ice-blue veins almost translucent through her skin, matching the chill inside of her. Though still in her young body, she felt like one of the old, dead-eyed zombies, drained of humanity. Even her kisses with Rafal had changed. His lips no longer felt cold.

By the fifth day, Sophie had disbanded the infirmary, since students had started faking injuries to avoid having to fight. Even the most intrepid Nevers trudged into the ring with their hands up, offering no resistance before their zombie opponent punched them, slashed them, or blasted them across the castle. Sophie was furious at first, but she knew the young students would eventually pay the price for such cowardice.

And indeed, when Beatrix accosted her in the hall after lunch, face shining with tears, screaming that a student had been killed, Sophie couldn’t help but feel whoever it was had deserved it.

“Saw it from our window—it was an ogre . . . threw someone off the belfry . . . into the bay—” Beatrix gasped.

“It’s what happens when you don’t fight back,” said Sophie, without stopping.

Beatrix grabbed her arm. “But aren’t you going to see whose body it is? It must have come from Castor’s class—”

“There won’t be a body if it was thrown into the bay. Slime would eat it right up,” said Sophie airily. “I suppose it erases the need for a funeral.”

Beatrix gaped at her, trembling. “All you ever wanted was to be Good. And now . . . you’re as bad as him.”

Sophie pulled Beatrix’s hand off her arm and walked away. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

It turned out the student thrown off the belfry wasn’t a student at all, but Beezle, who’d been cheering for an ogre in his fight against Ravan, only to stumble into the middle of the ogre’s charge and end up head butted over the railing. (Castor led a short memorial before first session the next day in which no one shed a tear.)