The noise reached a fever pitch. Along the window, I traced the fugitive’s progress with my finger. Soon he would accept capture. He would stop on a quid, slip back, fall down. His head would pivot as he looked for a way out. Just then, it happened as I predicted. He slipped and fell.

“The mob is vexed! They won’t bother waiting for the Guard. They’ll tear him apart!” Jetson shouted.

I squinted to see the fugitive’s face. He was like a turtle on his back, openly afraid. Suddenly, his head snapped right. He’d heard something. Before I could guess what it was, he hurdled upright and ran, taking another angle—east! Toward another line of workers at the far perimeter! I shook my head—nooo! The line was solid; he would never break through. He galloped toward them.

“Damn, he’s going to run right into them!” Jetson cried.

I screamed to release the tension. The firm black line was steady. The fugitive came abreast of it and—suddenly—it faltered. From one split second to the next, the workers shifted, broke hands and allowed the man to pass. In a flash, he crossed the perimeter. His path was clear as far as the eye could see. There were no fences in Cobane, they were considered barbaric. A properly trained worker respected the law—or, at least, he used to.

Stunned, I looked back at the men who had let the fugitive go free. Their hands were still clasped, twelve in all, one man short of a cluster. I gasped knowing, instinctually, that these were indeed the Rebels that gathered at night in the heart of the village.

A mob had formed around them. A black sea of workers, pointing and shouting their confusion. This was Cobane, after all. The House known for nurturing the most honorable workers in the Kongo. Our workers were strict Loyalists—happy to partake in the Rebirth. So loyal, the Guard here had dwindled to a handful of soldiers who didn’t bother to patrol the village at night.

I spotted the red head of the Overseer. Beside him, the English Captain of the Guard shouted orders. I shivered. I didn’t have to hear his words to know them. By aiding their cohort, the remaining Rebels had forfeited their lives. Each one would be hanged on the spot and burned in the village pyre. The Schoolhouse, and all of Cobane, was the Headmistress’ domain. Even now Jones would be en route to the village to pass judgment.

* * *

The crowd of chattering students thinned as the workers set about constructing a triangular gallows in the village square. Teachers bustled about, ordering us to return to our meals.

“What in Obi’s name just happened?” Jetson asked, directing his question to the circle of senior students.

I tore my gaze from the window. “They let him go free,” I said.