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Florence crossed the room and handed him Professor Kim’s note. The principal read it, then groaned—a loud, booming sound that seemed to echo. “Come in, then.”

Joel rounded the counter. Florence gave him a sympathetic shake of the head as he passed her and entered the principal’s office. The wood trim of the chamber was of fine walnut, the carpet a forest green. Various degrees, accolades, and commendations hung on the walls. Principal York had a towering desk to fit his large frame, and he sat, waving Joel toward the chair in front.

Joel sat down, feeling dwarfed by the fine desk and its intimidating occupant. He’d only been in this room three other times, at the end of each year when he’d failed a class. Footsteps fell on the carpet behind, and Florence arrived with a file. She handed it to York, then retreated, pulling the door closed. There were no windows in the room, though two lanterns spun quietly on each wall.

York perused the file, letting Joel sit in silence, sweating. Papers ruffled. Ticking from the lanterns and the clock. As the silence stretched, pulled tight like taffy, Joel began to question his plan.

“Joel,” the principal finally said, voice strangely soft, “do you realize the opportunity you are throwing away?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We don’t allow the children of other staff into Armedius,” York continued. “I allowed you in as a personal favor to your father.”

“I realize that, sir.”

“Any other student,” York said, “I would have expelled by now. I have kicked out the sons of knight-senators before, you know. I expelled the Monarch’s own grandnephew. With you, I hesitated. Do you know why?”

“Because my teachers say I’m bright?”

“Hardly. Your intelligence is a reason to expel you. A child with poor capacity, yet who works hard, is far more desirable to me than one who has a lot of potential, but throws it away.”

“Principal, I try. Really, I—”

York held up a hand, stilling him. “I believe we had a conversation similar to this last year.”

“Yes, sir.”

York sat for a few moments, then pulled out a sheet of paper. It had lots of official-looking seals on it—not a request for a tutor. An expulsion form.

Joel felt a stab of panic.

“The reason I gave you an extra chance, Joel, was because of your parents.” The principal took a pen from a holder on his desk.

“Principal,” Joel said. “I understand now that I’m—”

The principal cut him off again with an uplifted hand. Joel held in his annoyance. If York wouldn’t let him speak, what could he do? In the dark last night, the wild plan had seemed clever and bold. Now, Joel worried it would explode right in front of him.

The principal began to write.

“I failed that test on purpose,” Joel said.

York looked up.

“I wrote in answers I knew were wrong,” Joel said.

“Why in all of the heavens would you do such a thing?”

“I wanted to fail so that I could get a summer tutelage studying history.”

“Joel,” York said, “you could simply have asked Professor Kim if you could join his course this summer.”

“His elective will study European culture during the JoSeun occupation,” Joel said. “I needed to fail Rithmatic history so that I could end up studying that.”

“You could have approached one of the professors and asked them to tutor you,” York said sternly. “Sabotaging your own grades is hardly appropriate.”

“I tried,” Joel said. “Professor Fitch said that ordinary students weren’t allowed to study with Rithmatic professors.”

“Well, I’m certain that Professor Kim could have come up with an independent study course covering … You approached Fitch?”

“Yes.”

“He’s a Rithmatist!”

“That was kind of the point, sir.” How could he explain? “I don’t really want to study history. I want to study Rithmatic lines. I figure that if I get Professor Fitch alone and start him talking about Rithmatics, I’ll be able to learn about the defenses and offenses, even if the tutelage is supposed to be about history.”

He gulped, waiting for the scorn he’d received from others.

“Oh, well,” York said. “That makes sense then, I suppose—assuming you think like a teenage boy. Son, why didn’t you just come ask me?”

Joel blinked. “Well, I mean, everyone seems to think that studying Rithmatics would be arrogant of me, that I shouldn’t be bothering the professors.”

“Professor Fitch likes to be bothered,” York said, “particularly by students. He’s one of the few true teachers we have at this school.”

“Yes, but he said he couldn’t train me.”

“There are traditions,” York said, putting aside the form and taking out another one. York regarded it, looking uncertain.

“Sir?” Joel asked, hope beginning to recover within him.

York set the form aside. “No, Joel,” he said. “Fitch is right. There are rules against assigning ordinary students to take courses in Rithmatics.”

Joel closed his eyes.

“Of course,” York said, “I did just put Fitch on a very important project. It would be very useful to him to have help. There’s nothing forbidding me from assigning him a research assistant from the general school.”

Joel opened his eyes.

Principal York pulled out another sheet of paper. “This is assuming, of course, that said assistant wouldn’t be a distraction to Professor Fitch. I’ve already given him a student to tutor. I don’t want to overload him.”

“I promise not to be a bother,” Joel said eagerly.

“I suspect that, with all of his attempts to divide the Rithmatists from the common folk, this will quite upset Professor Nalizar. A tragedy.”

York smiled. Joel’s heart leaped.

“Of course,” York said, glancing at the clock, “I can’t give you this assignment unless you have an open summer elective. By my count, you still have forty-five minutes left of Kim’s history class. Do you think you could get a passing grade if you were to return and use the rest of your time?”

“Of course I could,” Joel said.

“Well then,” York said, tapping the sheet with his hand. “This form will be here, ready and waiting, assuming you can get back to me by the end of the day with a passing grade in history.”

Joel was out the office door a few heartbeats later, running across the lawn toward history class. He burst into the lecture hall, puffing, startling the students who still sat taking their tests.

His own exam still sat on Kim’s desk. “The principal convinced me to try again,” Joel said. “Can I … have a new test?”

Kim tapped his fingers together. “Did you just go look up the answers while you were out?”

“I promise I didn’t, sir!” Joel said. “The office can confirm that I was sitting there the whole time, books closed.”

“Very well,” Kim said, glancing at the clock. “But you’ll still have to finish in the allotted time.” He pulled out a fresh test and handed it to Joel.

Joel snatched it, then took a jar of ink and a quill and rushed back to his seat. He scribbled furiously until the clock rang, signaling the end of class. Joel stared at the last question, which he hadn’t answered in true depth, lacking time.

Taking a deep breath, he joined the other students at the front of the room turning in their papers. He waited until all of them were gone before handing in his own.

Kim took it, raising an eyebrow as he noticed the thorough answers. “Perhaps I should have sent you to the principal’s office months ago, if this was the result.”