Jetson had refused me his key. But what he didn’t know, what no one knew, was that the fence was not always properly maintained. Once, from my dorm room window, I’d seen a kitchen maid escape a beating by shoveling beneath a loose slate. If my luck held, I’d find a loose slate of my own.

I set about tapping each fence post as I walked alongside it. After several minutes one of the posts moved beneath my hand. I looked over my shoulder, across the wide yard and up at the Schoolhouse. Seeing no one, I pushed at the fence in earnest, loosening it more. I dug around its base until I had made a hole big enough for my frame to wiggle through. Finally, I struggled to the other side.

The meadow beyond the fence brimmed with grass high enough to irritate my neck and ears. I swatted it aside, pushed the hood of my cloak back and set off to the village.

* * *

My stomach tightened against a flood of nostalgia as I crossed the village perimeter for the first time in seventeen years. A wave broke loose, despite me, conjuring an image of the nursery. Lined with cribs, packed with half-naked babies. I’d sucked my own thumb or my brother’s as he nibbled our sister’s toe.

“It was all the same to us,” I whispered, then pressed a fist to my mouth. I had to control myself. Shaking off the memory, I quickened my step, and turned down the first street I came to.

There were Wanted signs everywhere. Dark faces stared back at me from posters scattered along the ground and nailed to the wooden walls of the huts I passed. Below each Wanted criminal’s face was a dollar sign signifying a monetary reward for their capture. I continued to walk.

There were no quaint cottages or chorusing workers milling the streets, as I’d imagined as a child. But, up close, it was even worse than I’d seen from my Schoolhouse window. Most of the shelters were in sad repair. Limp doors on rusted hinges, ripped wax-paper windows, and broken shutters. The dilapidation was distressing and I averted my eyes. I had an assignment to complete.

I wasn’t worried about detection by the Guard. Even after the arrest yesterday, I doubted they were patrolling the streets. And the Cobane Overseer diplomat quarters were deep in the outfield. At this hour, the village would be empty, save the workers and, somewhere, Hosea Khan.

Before leaving my room, I’d seen a light flickering in the village square and I was headed there to investigate. I paused for a moment to orient myself, then took the most direct path, squeezing sideways down a narrow opening between two huts.