Three thoughts play on a schoolyard roundabout in my head as the classroom clears around me. It's the kind of roundabout furnished with well-oiled bearings poised to fling children to the winds the moment they cross a certain threshold of momentum. I broke an arm on one of those once. My father grounded me for half a month on the grounds of being "unruly." I'd say that's not one of the thoughts, but it is, so I begrudgingly bump the number to four. The first is how much lunch I'm going to miss for this. The second is how well Mrs. Hardwick's name permutates to Mrs. Hardwork, which I think is very clever and therefore deserving of attention. The third is that the man in the doorway is gone. I don't remember him leaving.

And the fourth is the roundabout. I do not want to remember the roundabout. It reminds me of my father, and every memory of him stings in a way I swore up and down I'd never let myself be bothered by again. I made that promise years ago. It's always been a lie. But I'm the kind of person who hates being named a liar, least of all when the call-out comes from inside my own mind. This is the opposite of an exception.

"Desdemona Winchester," says Mrs. Hardwork over her spectacles.

"Des," I say. It's automatic.

"Des Winchester, then."

"Can't I just be Des?"

Pointless contradiction has always been my default when I'm not in control of a situation. Even to me, it feels pathetic. A kicked puppy snarling at the boot that kicked it. This won't go anywhere, but it still feels better than rolling over.

"Very well, Des," says Mrs. Hardwork. "Do you have a moment to spare to speak with me?"

She actually took the nickname.

Of all the things I expected here, a teacher's acquiescence on my aforementioned pointless contradiction is probably third-last on the list. Slightly above spectral haunting, and slightly below a vampire bite. I also register that she's asked an order as a question, thus opening the floor for more impotent obstinacy. The puppy's snarling at a fence post now.

"No," I say. "I'm hungry and I want lunch."

"Then I will only keep you for a moment. How has Melliford Academy treated you thus far?"

I stare at her. Just full-on fish mode: mouth open, jaw flapping a little, eyes probably bugged. Maybe I should grow scales while I'm at it. Maybe then I could jump in the lake and escape this place. If there isn't a lake outside at this point, I'll be very disappointed.

"You seem like a bright student," continues Mrs. Hardwork. I can't tell if she genuinely believes it. "My only hope is that you will find a way to thrive here, and I'd like to be a part of that however I can. Is there anything that would help you in class?"

It's a trap. It has to be; no self-respecting teacher detains me after class to deliver effusions on my scholarly promise. "No," I say. "I hate architecture."

"Do you truly, or do you hate being told to study it?"

That hits me like a slap in the face. I blink as my brain tries and fails to assemble another snappy comeback. Mrs. Hardwork continues to watch me from across her desk with an equanimous smile that I desperately want to wipe from her face. The worst part is, I don't actually have an answer for her.

"Think about it," she says, then un-steeples her fingers and rises from her teacher's chair. "In the meantime, I shan't keep you any longer. Lunch awaits, does it not?"

My mind, as a final Hail Mary, scrabbles for the only question it can forage from the useless, tattered paraphernalia of my thoughts. "Who founded the school?" I say.

Mrs. Hardwork pauses in her egress. For a long moment, my words hang in the air. And I swear something flickers in Mrs. Hardwork's eyes. Dark eyes.

I suddenly don't trust dark eyes, either.

I know, then. I know she knows. She's been dodging Exie's questions—and mine—on purpose, and she has no intention of disclosing what we've asked for. There's a reason behind what she does, and it's more than her vacuous manner would lead a person to believe.

"I think we should not let keep the servers waiting any longer," she says. It's a scripted reply. She must have a hundred of them close at hand. Exie and I can't be the first students to ever launch such an inquisition.

When I continue to imitate a statue in reply, Mrs. Hardwork continues, "You resist because you do not want to face the root causes of your own delinquency. That is what we strive to teach for here at the Academy. I look forward to seeing your progress in class. You are dismissed... Des."

The door is closed, but there's no lock on it. I can leave. She's told me to leave. So naturally I stand like an addlebrained sheep until Mrs. Hardwork glides to the doorway herself and lets me out with an after-you gesture. At least I retain enough wits not to thank her. Slamming the door behind me would make a point, but now she's standing in my way.

A door-slam, though, would only lower my chances of getting answers to all the questions we asked in class. I suddenly want to know what exactly this place is. Where my parents have sent me. They certainly won't answer that question themselves. Turgid though my father may be, he's not the type to question anything fed to him at just the right angle. Melliford Academy seems to have that angle nailed, if its student body is to judge. This school probably promised to return me reformed and ready to participate in the grand conspiracy of society. No wonder tuition costs so much. 

I'm no longer hungry. I step aside, but Mrs. Hardwork does not head towards the dining room. I pause to watch her departure. Then I realize that's obvious, and start walking the way I'm expected to instead. The moment I'm around the corner, I duck behind a grand marble statue of an angel. I peek back the way I came.

She's gone.

Icy spiders erupt across my skin. Just a moment ago, Mrs. Hardwork was striding serenely down the hallway in the opposite direction. There are no corners there. No side passages, either—no way out at all, unless she holds the key to one of those locked doors, and managed to unlock it with alacrity. I curse myself under my breath. I should have walked covertly and listened for a change of footsteps, click of a lock, or thump of a hidden doorway. No regular teacher in this place should be vanishing into walls with less than ten seconds' notice.

I scrub my arms as the spiders party. I retreat again to the angel's shadow to plot my next move. The statue is what one would expect from a religious sect so fixated on purity that they carved their iconography half-naked to soothe their repressed desires on their way to mass. Or maybe it was meant to tempt them. I don't actually care enough to know. Then I arrest that apathy, too, and frown up at the angel. I still haven't identified the last and largest painting at the front of the school's church. I wish Catholic angels didn't all look the same. I wish Gabriel had a crooked nose, or Raphael grew his hair long and tied it up in a ponytail nobody has the heart to tell him doesn't suit him. Maybe Michael actually looked disappointed in everything and everyone all the time instead of the resting reverent face all angels seem to be depicted with. If I was an angel tasked with looking after humanity, I'd probably hate my job, too.

The distraction buys me time. For the better part of a minute, I scrutinize the angel with his very unbiblical, eyeless wings and the skimpy cloth wrap pretending to pass for modesty about his midsection. It isn't very productive, but it stays me long enough that I can probably launch an investigation safely. I slip around the corner again. If I think hard enough, I can replicate Mrs. Hardwork's pace and estimate the time between our parting and my looking back to find her gone. I return to the classroom door and begin to walk. This is probably a fool's errand. But I can't not try. Seventeen seconds later, I stop to assess my surroundings. This is as far as the teacher could have gotten if she really did walk through a wall just as I turned around. Then I realize that's stupid, and retrace a dozen steps. She'd need time to open a door, if she's a normal human being without properties of evaporation.

It doesn't matter anyway. Both spots I stopped have the same doors: unlocked and leading to absolutely nothing. My new hideout is at the end of this row. The territorial corner of my mind is glad Mrs. Hardwork could not have reached it without running, which I would certainly have heard. I'm going to have to do a more thorough inspection of these rooms when I have time.

Now isn't the time for that, though. I sigh and turn back the way I came. I might as well try to catch the tail end of lunch; I'll need a clear head if I want to sneak around tonight, and I certainly plan to. Nobody scolds me as I enter the dining hall. There's mostly dregs of food left, but I'm not hungry anyway. I fill a plate with bits of mashed potato and gravied beef and pick the emptiest table that doesn't seat a pyromaniac. Nobody pays me much attention. I shovel my food and return the favor. When I'm done, I ditch my tray at the counter and finally look around.

Exie isn't here. I do a second pass to confirm, but she fluffed her hair again this morning, and I can't spot her. Which means she's probably studying somewhere—students like her always are. I don't want to speak to her after that look at the tail end of class. But I should at least figure out what architectural marvel she's chosen for our "joint" project, and my presence will annoy her, which is nice. I'm petty like that.

I'm glad I toured the whole school yesterday. I badger my brain for memories of carrel desks. Exie doesn't strike me as the type to study in the common room, so I wander the hallways and pull up short before the library doors. If she's not in there, I'll eat my left sock. I check behind me for eavesdroppers, then crack one big door and slip inside.

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