On our way to camp, Walker and Hurley gushed congratulations. Even Booster and Pidge shook our hands, good-naturedly. I accepted their praise, along with Voltaire and Finch. However, I was too worried to revel in my triumph. It was easy to see why Voltaire and I had withstood the trial. It was not skill, but luck. Our feet had fit flatly within the diameter. Pidge’s and Booster’s task, standing on half of one foot, had been measurably harder. Finch had his acrobatic skills to rely on. If not for that, he too would have fallen.

I worried my lip as I sat by the fire. If mere luck propelled me through this first trial—what would happen when my luck ran out? I hated for the Helix, my means of escape, to rest on such tenuous terms. As I accepted a plate of food, my gaze—unbidden—sought William’s. He smiled and shook his head. Arika not worry. I understood him as if he’d whispered directly into my heart. His familiar hum drifted across the fire to me. The same short tune. My shoulders relaxed. He lifted his cup and nodded his approval.

* * *

That night, I read to Voltaire. He lounged on his back, his hands crossed over his middle. “You’re skipping, English,” he said.

Short-tempered, I rolled my shoulders. I’d asked Hosea about the training schedule after dinner, hoping to receive an extra tip. He had laughed in my face. This isn’t the Schoolhouse, Cobane. You’ll learn with everyone else.

Seeing Hosea’s smug expression, I glared at Voltaire. “I’m not skipping,” I snapped.

He ignored me. “Go back—three pages.”

“One,” I countered.

He opened one eye. “Three.”

I sighed and began again, through clenched teeth.

“You’re going too fast—English!”

I snapped the book shut. “I am not English!”

Fly Man stirred restlessly. Voltaire sat up to adjust the boy’s covers. “Of course, Record Keepers aren’t English,” he muttered. “You speak like the English and you live in the white house with the white ghost. In the Assembly, you vote like the English, to the harm of your own people. But, I see now. Oh, mighty First Brother, you are right—you are not English.”

“I was forced to live in the white house,” I hissed. “The white ghosts—the Teachers—forced me to speak as I do. I had no choice.”

“Yet you benefit greatly from all the choices you did not have.”

“I had food and clothes, yes, but nothing else. I’m no more free than you!”

Voltaire scoffed. “For all your letters, you—English—are quite dull. You’ll never understand what you have until it’s taken from you.”

I threw the book on the ground. “Fine. If you’re so smart, you read it!” I jumped up and stomped away, muttering to myself.