I slid my hand beneath the page and ripped it out. I crumpled the list and threw it in the trash. I drew in a deep breath and sighed. I couldn’t abandon Jetson. He would need someone to watch over him at Hasting. That done, I bent over my notebook and began reading. I skimmed several bullet points and made a few notations.

Halfway through the page, I stiffened. A new script had replaced mine. The letters were small and neat. It was his writing. I was squinting down, trying to ignore the penmanship, when a pair of gray-brown eyes appeared over the words. I blinked twice. Now his face was there! His wild hair and ridged brow, his neck and the plane of his back—unmistakable. The Vine Keeper! I stared as his visage changed shape, morphing into a golden beast. I’d seen this creature in pictures. Big cats had ruled the jungles of Africa, the continent of dark men in the old world. Before there was a Kongo territory, or even a Kongo army, there was—“The Pan-African Nation,” I whispered. The lion, with his furious mane, had been the king of the cats. I slammed the notebook shut.

The problem—the real problem—was Jones’ leniency with that boy. Even if Covington had convinced Jetson to lie to me to get the Senate seat, they could not have influenced Jones. Her tolerance simply did not fit. It was impossible to conceive of a Schoolhouse—a world—in which Jones was not willing to punish open rebellion.

I slammed my hand over my ears where the new kid’s question clattered. Why not leave the union and start our own nation? The answer was obvious! We needed the North and they needed us! That’s how the world worked—that is, according to the old Jones.

Covington assumed that Jones’ leniency meant that she agreed with the new kid, but I wasn’t so sure. Jones herself had provided a clue to the contrary. I tapped the quill against my chin as I thought. Just after Jones delivered her set down to Jetson that morning, she’d said, “we must all accept the Vine Keeper’s presence.”

My nails tapped faster. The quill brushed back and forth. We must all. Not just the students, but Teachers as well. Pure instinct told me Jones and the Vine Keeper—with his village eyes—were not on the same side. So, who was he and why was he at the Schoolhouse?

I nibbled my thumbnail, as I left my desk and lay down fully dressed. My stomach growled, demanding attention. Once again, I had eaten only a few bites of supper. The meal had been poorly prepared. According to gossip, the kitchen had been understaffed for days. One of those missing, I knew, was Robin.