For years, I’d watched the workers from my dormitory window. In bambi cloth britches, they swayed with their labor, in the heat of the Kongo sun. They were hundreds of yards away. I couldn’t hear their song. But I learned it from the rhythm of their work: swinging the sickle, catching the wheat, tossing the wheat, swinging the sickle.

I imagined I toiled along with them as I ran. Swinging the sickle, catching the wheat, tossing the wheat, swinging the sickle. The song became my breath, in and out. Swinging the sickle, catching the wheat, tossing the wheat, swinging the sickle. I lengthened my stride, and leapt up from the ground as my back began to tingle. I imagined I felt something sprouting there—my wings! They would lift me! Into the air, into the trees, where the wind breathed. Swinging the sickle, catching the wheat, tossing the wheat, swinging the sickle. I was close now. I’d dive through the window, fly to the village, rally my comrades there—only, would they rally?

I was at the window, about to leap, when I faltered. I pivoted, looking for another route. There wasn’t one, and she was right behind me. I was cornered. I squared my shoulders and turned to face her.

“Primary Cobane,” she said, delight in her eyes. “Students must not run in the Schoolhouse.”

Before she could say more, I threw up a fist and charged at her middle. “Hurrah!”

Her hand darted out like a viper, opening and snapping shut, barely missing my throat.

I reared back, rallied, and charged again. “Hurra—”

Her fist drove into my ribs. I flew back, cracking my head on the pane. The last thing I saw was her nametag etched in gold, pinned to a cold, hard breast—Headmistress Jones.

* * *

A garbled sound woke me. A whisper crackling in and out—and there it was again! A girl chirping in the pitch black, but I couldn’t make sense of her words. My eyes strained to see her. I tried to shift, turn my head, but I couldn’t move. I was locked in a space so tight, I barely fit. I was seated upright, my arms around my knees and my chin jammed between.

I was certainly alone, so what was that voice? A ghost? And where was I? A tomb? Suddenly, I remembered. The wan-faced Teacher had warned me of a dungeon in the Schoolhouse basement. This was not a tomb, but the Pit. Panicked, I arched my back and gasped for breath, bruising the knobs of my spine as, all around, the indistinct harping continued.