I chewed on my lip. Talking with him was out of the question. He would undoubtedly update Covington, who would use whatever I said to her advantage. No, the safest bet for now was to side with the Teachers, until I graduated from the Schoolhouse. Only, which Teacher?

Saxon was an old ally, but Jones was the Headmistress. She’d given me the black book, which coiled—even now—like a snake in my pocket. Something primal told me to stick with her until I was out of her grasp. Then, I would see to placating the Director. I bit my lip. With a great deal of luck, I’d be out of his reach too—safe in the Assembly.

I turned to Jetson. “I need something from you.”

His brows drew together. “What is it?”

“Don’t ask me any more questions until the Committee meeting tomorrow afternoon.”

“The meeting is tomorrow evening,” he corrected.

“Fine, I’ll be there. I swear.”

“Why can’t you explain it to me now?”

I answered honestly. “Because right now, I don’t know who to trust.”

Jetson frowned. “Arika, what are you planning?”

I ignored him. “Oh, and one more thing. I need your key to the Schoolhouse gate.”

He balked.

“No more questions,” I reminded him. “And don’t deny that you have a key. I know you’ve snuck out with the others.”

“You’re nutty if you think you’re going alone. I’ll come with you.”

I thought for a moment. “You can’t come. I need to move in secret. With two of us gone, someone is bound to find out.” Three of us, I added to myself. Hosea had gone too.

“If I can’t go, you’re staying put. No one will give you a key now, they’re vexed.”

“Jetson, I must go!”

“No! It’s dangerous out there.” He lowered his voice. “Another attack happened last night, at Point Landing. Four Keepers were lodged at the Overseer’s mansion when Voltaire’s White-Face men broke into their room.”

I clutched my throat. “Are they—?”

Jetson nodded. “Dead. And the riots aren’t over. Workers are fighting the Guard. Dozens have been arrested. The Overseer is threatening to abandon the House entirely.”

Moaning, I rubbed my aching temple. Behind my lids I saw the cartoon of the Kongo man, his eyes shining from a white-painted face, a bloody dagger lifted over his head.

I shivered and opened my eyes. The giant had held his crude club just like that, when he’d offered to put me to sleep. Was he one of them? I couldn’t guess—but I needed answers. The Kongo leadership was splintering. Soon, we’d all be scampering like rats for a burrow. If I was to survive, I needed to be invaluable to the people in power—to Jones. I needed information.