Miphis elbowed Micah. Micah lifted his head, looking annoyed, like he was about to bark at his cousin. It was almost—almost—worth yesterday’s humiliations and injuries to see the astonishment on Micah Bayar’s face when he laid eyes on Han. Astonishment that he quickly wiped away.

Their eyes met, locked together. “Blood and bones, Alister, what happened to you?” Micah said, touching his own cheekbone with his forefinger. “Fighting again?”

Miphis tittered, his eyes shifting from Han to Micah.

“Fell down the stairs,” Han said. “Nearly broke my neck, in fact.”

“Perhaps you should watch your step next time,” Micah said, stretching lazily.

Fiona’s puzzlement turned to fury. She cocked back her arm and pegged the book at her brother’s head. He just managed to duck in time. It whizzed past him and smacked into the wall with tremendous force.

The proficient looked up, glaring, but decided not to intervene when he saw who it was. Wil Mathis fetched the book and handed it back to Fiona. She sat down next to Wil and opened it, spots of color on her pale cheeks.

Fiona had a rum arm. Han made a mental note to remember that.

He also wondered what could be going on between the two Bayars.

Han and Dancer took a table in a corner. They each chose a book, taking notes on the assigned chapters, then recopying them for the other.

Several times, Han looked up to find Fiona watching him fixedly, her pale blue eyes going nearly purple in the flickering candlelight, her hands clenching the book on the table in front of her.

Well, have an eyeful, girlie, Han said to himself, massaging his aching head. I can’t help how I look. This is your brother’s doing.

That was the thing. In the blueblood world, your enemy dined and danced with you, talking pretty to your face while reaching around to stab you in the back.

At ten, Han put his other work aside and pulled out Kinley to reread the chapter about Aediion. He’d never planned on going back; now he had to study up quick.

At eleven o’clock, Micah swept up his books and papers and stowed them in his book bag. Pulling on his cloak, he slung the bag over his shoulder and stopped by the proficient’s desk for a walking pass, since it was past the ten o’clock curfew.

It seemed Micah was done for the night.

Struggling to concentrate, wondering where Micah had gone, Han read and scribbled until the bells in Mystwerk Tower bonged quarter past eleven. Catching Dancer’s eyes, Han slid his papers into his carry bag, laying Kinley on top. Dancer collected his books and papers also.

Han stood, stretched painfully, and fumbled one-handed into his wool cloak, draping it over his carry bag.