I’d been organizing Teacher Saxon’s office when a newspaper cartoon shifted into view: a Kongo man with a tattooed head, a thick nose and fleshy lips—all the marks of a worker. Dark eyes glared from his black face, covered in white paint. His huge fist, raised above his head, gripped a bloody dagger.

I glanced at the caption: A White-Face Rebel Attacks! Next to the image, a headline in bold font: Voltaire’s Rebel Army Ravages the South. Wide-eyed, I skimmed the article. Late January—Rebels at Hannibal House—a handful of Record Keepers injured. A month later, a raid at River Run—fifteen dead. All organized by the Rebel, Voltaire, the leader of the White-Face Army. Trembling, I shoved the clipping under a stack of exams. I hadn’t looked at it again. I told myself the danger would never reach Cobane. Our village was known all over the Kongo for our loyal, peaceful workers.

Even so, I couldn’t sleep that night; I’d gone to the senior classroom to study. I happened to look from the window—and there they’d been, across the meadow, in the isolated east end of the village. Twelve dark moons around a black nucleus. All that morning I’d searched for a legitimate reason a group of workers would meet in the middle of the night. I couldn’t find one. Troubled, I woke to watch them the next night, and the next.

On this, the seventh night, I pressed my nose against the classroom window, determined to identify the attendees. No doubt they were Rebels—Second Brothers who refused to take the Rebirth. But were they White-Face Rebels, members of Voltaire’s Army? Plotting an attack? I squinted, searching for a smear of white paint on their faraway faces. I didn’t see any paint, but the distance between us was great and I couldn’t be sure.

When it was time for class I gave up my vigil. Exhausted, I made my way to my desk to start my morning routine. It was always the same. Opening my pack, I set my ink at the top right corner and two quills beside it. At the top left, I lined up my required readers. I placed a dictionary, a notebook and my extra reading material on top of that pile. Taking a deep breath, I sat as, over the next hour, my classmates arrived in gossiping pairs.

Covington, tall and thin with a stork-like neck, bumped into my desk as she entered, spilling my ink. “Oops, sorry,” she said lightly. “I wouldn’t want to upset the valedictorian.”

My hand shot out to right the ink. I glowered. The lip of the glass jar was cracked. “Of course you’d love to upset me,” I said, smiling tightly. “But, since you study half as much as I, I’m not worried.”