On the last day of that year, Jones interrupted class to announce I’d earned perfect marks. I was on my way to becoming a proper First Brother. That night, I did not dream of the Pit or her by the window. She was firmly in my past—or so I thought.

Outside of the kitchen, Jones’ hand snaked down to grip me, high on the arm, just above my crescent scars. “Come with me.” She jerked me to my feet, testing my joints.

The years of safety fell away in a flash. A falling sensation, a dark hall, and there—below the circle of light—I saw her rocking and mouthing.

No! I shook my head to clear it as I hurried to keep up with Jones. We rounded the dining room, mounted the stairs. I stumbled. Jones didn’t stop, yanking my arm nearly out of its socket.

Pain, garbled whispers. Don’t plead. Roll over and grovel. Play dumb. She likes that. Turn your face up, okay? Can you hear me?

No! No! I squeezed my eyes shut. We rounded the dormitory wing.

Jones shoved open the door to my room and pushed me inside.

I fell to the ground.

“Stand up, girl!”

I jumped up, disoriented, wincing at the pain in my shoulder.

She bent forward into the hall and looked around. Satisfied that we were not followed, she closed the door. She turned, flayed me with her eyes.

I trembled out of control.

Finally, she spoke. “The Teachers gathered for the Graduate Assessment last night. Can you guess what was said about you?”

“Wha—I—” I shook my head to clear it. Obi! I had forgotten about the Assessment.

She moved to my desk chair and sat down. She beckoned me closer. “Come now, don’t be modest. Give a guess.”

I took a shaking step forward, searching for what she wanted me to say, what would keep me safe? I cleared my throat. “I hope I passed with the rest of my class, Teacher.”

“You did pass, although not with the rest of them. That would make you mediocre. And, from every report, you’re quite the opposite. You never speak out of turn, you rarely speak above a whisper. You never run or curse. You don’t stay awake past lights out without permission. Or linger in the garden when you should be in your room. In fact, you’re rarely out of the library. According to Teacher Saxon, you are a perfect student.” She rubbed a knuckle along her chin. “And I almost agree with her.”

I ducked my head. What was she getting at?

“Do you know why I say almost, Arika?”

I shook my head.

“Speak!”

I jumped. “No, Teacher.”

“I say almost, Arika, because last night Master Vine was not in his room and this morning I found you out of yours.”