I turned to East Keep, who had issued this challenge in patent disbelief. She was right. The long braids and twists we wore weren’t only by preference. An old Schoolhouse rule, intended to separate us from the workers, required they shave their heads every year. Conversely, we were to keep at least two years of length.

I looked at Covington. “You know I’m a stickler for rules,” I said.

She rolled her eyes. “I might have picked up on that.”

“Then you’d better not muck this up.”

She smiled, slowly. “I wouldn’t dare.”

The Black Book

THE BLACK BOOK

The drums played that night, for an unprecedented second time in one week. We paused the party, letting half-complete twists unravel, while we crowded around the window to squint into the night. Within minutes, the fugitive was surrounded by a group of workers. This time, they didn’t let him go free.

I forced myself to watch as two dozen workers formed three beams of wood into a triangle. They hoisted the triangle up and supported each point on three more beams. A rope was slung over the structure and a noose coiled at the rope’s end. Ten minutes later, the fugitive swung.

As I walked back to my room for the night, my scalp tight beneath the braids, I thought back to Martin’s speech, so clear and articulate. With his red bandana and rousing message, everything about him had been sharp and intelligent—unimpaired. Was he now hanging beneath the moon, slain by his own Kongo brothers? And what had been his crime? Daring to suggest that individual Kongo lives were more important than the quota?

At my desk, I listened to the rumbling of my stomach as I made notes in Jones’ black book. I listed all the facts I’d learned about Hosea and the Director. There weren’t as many as I wanted, so I took the next hour to add my conjectures to the list. As I wrote, I saw Hosea’s strange brown eyes on the page. My pen dropped twice from my shaking hand before the task was complete.

Even so, I refused to acknowledge the shame that nagged me. I told myself I had no choice but to report to Jones—my assignment was clear. More, to really change the Kongo for good, I had to make it to the Assembly. Which meant, I had to appease Jones.

Finished, I placed the book in a locked compartment of my desk alongside a small bag of dried orange wedges—a rare fruit in the Kongo. I took the bag out and held it to my nose. I’d gotten the treat as a reward from Teacher Rowan last fall. Instead of ripping into it that day, I’d decided to save it, to eat on my journey to Hasting. I closed and locked the compartment then took out a clean notebook. I had a promise to keep.