My insides growled and tumbled anew, forcing me to confront the problem bubbling inside it. Robin and I were the same age. We nursed in the same nursery. Yet, here I was, part of the elite. And Robin—where was she?

I rose from my bed and paced. A few minutes later, without acknowledging my destination, I left my dorm. I reached the kitchen without trouble. The youngest maids, who spent part of their day learning in the village Academy, slept separately from the older Schoolhouse workers. Squinting, I identified the girl Robin had trusted to fetch me. She was curled up asleep by a smoking hearth.

“Pssst!”

She sat up. Her eyes, as large and soft as I remembered, fluttered awake. I spoke immediately, not wanting her to talk loudly and bring unwanted attention.

“It’s me, Arika,” I said.

“I see you, Mistress,” she said. She rubbed her eyes. “You’ve come to see Robin.”

“Yes.”

“I will show you the way.” She stood and slid her feet into slippers. The stove’s glow shone through her simple brown shift, making her appear spectral. Her eyes were clear and intelligent and I guessed she was no more than six, which meant her mind was as sound as it would ever be.

“We have to hurry; dawn is coming,” I said, avoiding her eyes. When she took the Rebirth, at seven, it would rearrange and scatter her memories. Some would disappear altogether. Her gaze would acquire the blank, unfocused look that most of the workers had.

She led me past the hall, where the older maids slept, and stopped at an open storage closet. Robin was curled on her side beside a full cup of water.

“How long has she been like this?” I asked.

“Many days, Mistress,” the girl said. “She cannot go on much longer.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s sad.”

Sad? I looked again. She appeared to be sleeping. I turned to ask the little maid for an explanation, but she’d disappeared.

“Robin, are you hurt?” I called.

At my voice, she shifted, exposing a gleam of metal in the darkness—a knife! I hurried to her side.

“Robin, what is it?” I hesitated to grab the knife, not daring to start a struggle. I wrung my hands. “Robin, please. Tell me. What is it?”

She lifted her head, showing me her face, hollow-cheeked and wet, her eyes staring blindly into the dark grief that encompassed her.

“Robin!” I called. She didn’t respond. “Robin, are you there? Can you hear me?”

She jerked. Her hand tightened on the knife. She lifted it, suddenly, so the sharp edge bit the pulse racing in her wrist.

I grabbed the hilt, wrapping my hand around hers. “Robin, please! You’ll hurt yourself.” I pulled her head against my shoulder. “Robin, it’s Arika. It’s Arika, Robin. It’s me, Arika.”