She replaced her glasses. “Your kind are vain and bawdy,” she declared. “You’ll go as you are and be grateful. If you feed well, I’ll grant a pass to the Supply Room. Students must be trained up in cleanliness,” she quoted. The library door shut soundlessly behind her.

I stared at my feet.

“Well, whatever happens,” Jetson said, “you’ll have a clean plate to show. I’m hungry enough for two.”

I swallowed hard, reminding myself that there were only two days left.

“And a pass,” Jetson added, prodding me down the hall. “You don’t get those every day.” He smiled good-naturedly and maintained an optimistic monolog for the rest of our walk. Just before we entered the Hall, his voice faded mid-sentence. He stopped me with a hand on my arm.

“Here,” he said. He unpinned his pallium and threw the short cape over my shoulders, hiding the stain on my shirt. Capeless, his arms were bare, which was against the rules. I opened my mouth to protest. Before I could, he gave me a shove through the doors.

* * *

At the meal line, Jetson handed me a tray and took one for himself. He waggled one posh brow at the girl plating the stew. “My dear Miss Windy, tell me. What hath your hand prepared today?”

I snorted. Our meals were served by female workers who were privileged in that they avoided fieldwork. They didn’t have the tired look of the rougher field hands and Jetson practiced wooing them. In his spare time, he memorized bits of the old-world poetry book he stored in his back pocket.

“Pork and potatoes,” Windy whispered. She turned her face and coughed into her shoulder. Her smile thinned to a grimace.

I frowned. She seemed to be in pain.

“Any pork left?” Jetson asked, eyeing the pot.

She nodded weakly. “I saved some for you, Master.”

“Hardout, my girl! Miss Windy of the south wind, you are my favorite.” He passed over our plates, which Windy filled generously, a sweet expression lighting her bloodshot eyes.

I glanced back at her as we took napkins and moved on.

“I, for one, am not looking forward to meals at Hasting,” Jetson declared.

I picked up utensils and inspected my plate. Meals were, at best, reliable. Breakfast was cereal with yogurt. Noon meal, like supper, was stewed meat and potatoes, greens, and nuts. On occasion, there were fluffy cinnamon muffins or pudding. “Well, I am,” I said. “At Hasting, we can decide for ourselves whether we’re hungry and what it is we want to eat.”

He grinned. “Obi, Arika. Your stomach growled all morning. And now, you’re vexed you’re eating?”

I jumped to my own defense. “I need to study! Graduate Assessments—”

Jetson laughed. “You’re a nut,” he concluded. “You quote rules incessantly. And yet, you hate taking orders—even if they’re in your best interest.”

Unable to deny this, I lifted my chin.