“Everyone’s talking about it. Detura’s daughter’s in our year, and two people placed so high they have their own special class. It wasn’t hard to figure out.”
I glance around her room, my throat twisting. It’s as cramped and bare as the others, but the darkness and flickering orange light offer an unexpected coziness, unlike the pale gray skies that highlight the lack of color in mine.
“I’m sorry. I wanted people to see me, not my father. And I hadn’t fully grasped just how far ahead of everyone else I was.”
Perhaps that was naive of me, to think others would be motivated to practice in secret—after all, since I’m not my father, I was breaking the law, too—but Reid proves I wasn’t horribly wrong in that assumption.
Sophie raises a doubtful brow. “You thought it was normal to incant non-verbally?”
“I didn’t really think about it. It was simply what was expected of me.” I lean against the doorframe, dropping my gaze. Memories surface of sitting on my bedroom floor for days, struggling to make a flower bloom without a word. Seeking that nod of approval as if it were my only source of air. “My father—my entire childhood, the only other children I saw were the ones I glimpsed in the streets when I looked out my window.”
“Are you trying to make me feel sorry for you?”
The edge in her voice snaps me back. “No! I-I wanted you to understand.” My chest tightens with worry that I’ve only made things worse. “I’m sorry.”
Sophie’s expression is unreadable by the dim light. A moment later, she shakes her head with a scoff. “Little Miss Privilege. Of course the High Marshal’s daughter would grow up thinking incanting is normal.”
I straighten, my muscles tensing. That wasn’t the reaction I’d been hoping for; I must have worded it wrong. “I didn’t mean—”
“You have no idea what it’s like for the rest of us, do you? Ihadpracticed, despite it being outlawed. I wanted to be here, and I wanted to do well. That’s why I delayed for a year. I wanted to make sure I was ready.”
My brow furrows. “Then why—”
She cuts me off again, pressing her hands against her desk. “You don’t even want to be here, do you?”
“It wasn’t really my choice, but—”
“My father gave everything to the war. He lost his leg. Yet here you are, acting like you deserve sympathy for having everything handed to you?”
My surprise boils into anger. This wasn’t even supposed to be about me to begin with—she’s the one who tried to trick Alexis. But she has no right to judge me, no idea what it’s like to grow up under the weight of never-ending expectations.
“If you care so much, then why are you stuck in the remedial classes?” The words blurt out before I can stop myself, and I’m immediately flooded with regret.
Sophie’s chair squeaks as she pushes to her feet, eyes narrowing. “I choked. Something someone like you wouldn’t understand.”
I swallow, trying to recover. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to be under pressure? My father’s the High Marshal. That’s my entire life.”
“Poor you.” She crosses her arms, glaring at me through the dark shadows carving into her face. “Now, if you don’t mind, some of us have some studying to get back to.” She returns to her paper, the tip of her pen scraping against it as shecontinues writing.
Possible responses fly through my head, from biting retorts to pacifying words, but they evaporate before I can form them. They won’t change the fact that I failed to reach her, and every passing second has me wishing I could disappear into the darkness.
* * *
The next morning, Alexis and I wrap our coats tight against the cold as we walk the stone pathways that cut through the sea of dirt to Professor Dewey’s wind incanting class. I keep my mouth shut about Sophie, worried that the details of our spat could turn Alexis against me, too, despite her not seeming to care about my past. She lost her parents to the war—she could just as easily take my lack of enthusiasm the wrong way.
Reid’s waiting in the back when we arrive, so I join him while Alexis finds a seat among the other students. The classroom’s similar to all the rest, but with everything placed with precision and care, every desk aligned at perfect ninety-degree angles.
Shortly after our arrival, Professor Dewey strides in, a toadish man with a bald spot and tortoiseshell spectacles. He tells Reid and me to take some empty seats in the back, saying he’ll deal with us after he addresses the rest of the class.
After a brief introduction, he makes it abundantly clear that he’s a perfectionist with an eye for detail and expects nothing less from us. He draws three focals on the chalkboard, emphasizing the exact degrees of their angles and the percentage of the circles’ circumferences and diameters that each line should take up, without using any measuring tools. After directing the rest of the students to copy them, he approaches Reid and me.
Our task is to draw every wind focal we know. He’ll review them at the end of the period to assess their accuracy.
Reid curses under his breath after the professor leaves to checkon the others’ progress. “I haven’t actually drawn any of these in years.”
At least we’re in the same boat.
We leave with pages so marked up, you’d think a cat attacked them, with the expectation of submitting our revisions in two days. It briefly crosses my mind to slide them under Sophie’s door as proof that I’m not as perfect as she seems to think, but she’d probably take it the wrong way.
