I jumped and spoke with the rest of the class. “Hello and welcome.”

She nodded. “Hosea will sit in on lecture for our final two days.”

She turned to address the new kid privately, and I felt something poke my shoulder. To my right, Jetson Cobane, my house brother, had jabbed me with his quill. He was the one chosen to take my place at the Schoolhouse when they thought I would die from crying that first week. When I did, eventually, recover, they had consulted the Compromise and kept us both. Jetson reminded me ceaselessly that my stubbornness had saved him from life in the field.

“Psst. Do you know anything about this?”

I shook my head and shrugged, facing forward again, just in time. Teacher Jones was frowning at me as she spoke.

“A volunteer, please. Hosea is in need of a tutor for the next two days. He’ll need notes and an introduction to our Schoolhouse customs. The tutor must have a work-up of the Final Exam structure, as he’ll be taking it with you next month.”

Another shocked silence. Behind me, I felt my classmates exchanging curious looks. I could even guess their thoughts.

A new kid, a worker from the look of him.

Did I hear correctly? Is he really from the Vine House?

There hasn’t been a Vine Keeper in years!

For good reason, Vine workers are rotten. All they do is drink liquor and smoke hash.

Nothing good comes from the Vine.

I brushed the end of my quill along my chin and mulled. So long as Covington remained distracted with her social schedule, I had a fair chance of beating her. But what of this new kid? Had he trained privately? Would he ace the Final Exam? Was he eligible for the Senator seat? I worried my lip. Jones was tricky when it came to questions. Too few would garnish more homework. Too many would land you in the Pit. Cautiously, I raised my hand.

Jetson spoke out of turn. “Teacher, forgive me, but how is that possible?”

Jones sniffed. Under her gray uniform, she was covered all over with heavy slabs of visceral fat, as hard as muscle. Her voice tended to pound from her throat in a bark—especially when she smelled defiance. “How?” she replied.

Surreptitiously, I lowered my hand.

Jetson ventured on. “Yes, how? How is he going to pass a test in three weeks that we’ve been preparing for our whole lives? It’s impossible.”

She lowered her gaze to Jetson. “Mister Cobane, you’re not to speak on this matter again. Hosea’s presence here is a matter for us all to accept. Is that understood, Mister Cobane?”

In the Kongo, the titles Mister and Miss were customarily reserved for workers.

Jetson bowed his head. “Yes, Teacher.”

Jones turned back to the new kid.