"We need to get competitive," said Earnest. He had shown up early again, beating Miss Thicket Wimple’s wagon, beating anyone except Dalliance, who had been asleep when Earnest rapped on the door.

  "I don’t understand," said Dalliance sleepily.

  "Sure you do. You've got all that with your [Aeromancer] class now, which means you’re not a [Pupil]. So, it doesn’t matter about that. But it does matter that you don’t have [Memorize]. You can’t memorize things, and I can’t memorize things, and they can memorize things. And they’re going to. And you still need that slot, don't you?"

  Dalliance gave him a look.

  "Okay," Earnest admitted, "you need the slot. You have no possible way to pay the tuition, I get it. Which means you’re gonna have to get creative."

  Dalliance dug out his things and showed Earnest the study sheet he had been working on, fingers throbbing with the effort. He'd had the same thought the night before; the conversation with Charity and her father had inspired him to think about the possibilities out there in the world beyond the village in more specific terms than just 'I don’t want to be a farmer like Da.'

  Bastard.

  "I am completely aware that I need to be more competitive," he said. "Look at this. This sheet has all the formulae I can think of, every little 'this is going to be on the test' thing that he’s told us. I just can’t memorize it."

  "Then cheat," said Earnest. "Roll it up. Stick it in your sock."

  Dalliance considered the idea. He could predict what would happen if he tried to unroll the cheat sheet . . . and get the answer without actually looking at the sock. It was perfect. "Earnest, that’s brilliant. You’ve solved my academic issues in one go, in one sentence."

  "Why, I am naturally gifted," he admitted modestly. "But this is the second time we've solved your problems first, so let’s get cracking on mine."

  By the time Mister Best knocked solicitously on the door, Earnest had succeeded in copying down the contents of the sheet. However, his broadly looping handwriting took up far more space.

  "It’s fine," Earnest said. "I don't actually have to get it out. I'll just take yours."

  The day was mildly exciting—the news was vouchsafed that they’d next be hunting a bear, in an abandoned hill-fort it was turning into a Lair—but Dalliance’s attention was completely diverted by his social life, for once.

  Breakfast was excellent, as always: a rush for the fluffiest eggs and the handfuls of berries that would accompany the sausage. Dalliance found himself eating greedily, something about the familiarity of the breakfast feeling homey in a setting that otherwise didn’t.

  "Morality Best will be joining us in our future meetings," said Charity, "just as soon as we're able to get to Water Street and meet up with Whimsy as well."

  Effluvia scoffed. "Why do we even need Whimsy?"

  "Why is that a question? I don’t need any of you," said Charity frankly. "I didn’t ask to make this a real thing. I just wanted us to be able to trust one another so that we didn’t get in trouble for Dalliance telling us things we weren’t supposed to know. And then I wanted us to trust each other so that we could get away. And then it was too late, and Daddy knew, and everyone was thinking this was a real, official, sanctioned thing. And now we’re talking about meetings and our futures, and we’re probably going to have to show up at each other’s weddings and invite one another for tea. And I like you well enough, and it’s fine, but don’t complain to me about who I am inducting when that was never the goal to begin with."

  Earnest patted Charity on the shoulder kindly. "There, there," he said. "Sometimes you don’t ask for your friends, but you got us anyway. So that’s nice, isn’t it?"

  She looked at him blankly.

  "'She’s my sister," Dalliance said to Effluvia, his voice frank, matching her tone. "She is important."

  The girl looked at him seriously. "I apologize," she said. "That was ill-spoken. Of course she’s important. My apologies."

  Dalliance was the popular choice for who should give the good news to Morality, but Effluvia and Circe didn’t stay to find out her reaction.

  Neither did Charity, who was a little out of sorts from the prolonged explanation she had received from Effluvia as to why the council was a good idea and why this was important for their future lives, when she hadn’t actually been asking whether it was a good idea, simply saying that it wasn’t her fault.

  The argument had gone something like: "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to make contacts throughout the different layers of society? Personal contacts? As you get older, it takes a whole set of skills. There are specialists—all they do, they're called concierges—they know the right people to make things happen. That’s what butlers do. That’s what personal assistants do. In fact, that’s what a lot of the more useful types of people out there do: they know people. And here we are. We’re in on the ground floor with one another. Who knows where we’re all going to end up, but we know it’s not going to be the same place. Why would we turn down a treasure like that?"

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  "She thinks I’m a treasure," said Earnest.

  "I think you’re going to end up at the Temple," Effluvia said frankly. "And I’m going to treat you well as a friend so that you’ll treat me well as a friend back. And I will be your contact with the nobles, and you’ll be my contact in the Temple."

  "That sounds transactional," said Charity, horrified.

  "Everything’s transactional," explained Effluvia. "That doesn’t mean it can’t be honest, or worthwhile, or genuine with feelings. It’s just how life is. You give love to keep love. You give mana to receive goods and services."

  Needless to say, Charity hadn’t enjoyed that conversation at all, or the other noble girl's refusal to drop it until her side was understood and stated as such. Charity and Earnest had eventually capitulated with a series of weary yes-ma'ams.

  "Perfect, thank you, ma'am," Earnest had said, later declaring the entire thing to be a colossal failure of tact and diplomacy, which he expected the noble daughter to do better. Said noble daughter had ignored him just as Charity was ignoring her, and left earlier than the rest.

  And, to his mounting stress, amidst all that Dalliance had to face Sterling’s sitting next to his desk with an explosive release of breath and putting one velvet ruffled elbow in the middle of his papers.

  "Dalliance," Sterling told him without waiting for so much as a by-your-leave, "Father spoke to me. He said I needed to make it clear to you that, while I appreciate the obviation of the necessity of escorting you to school, it does not mean that I am released from the duty to discharge my debt to you. After careful consideration, and remembering what I do about your size, I prevailed on Father to allow me to gift you this set of training mail."

  How gracious. What about my books?

  He handed Dalliance a small leather bag, a parcel about the size of a bread loaf. It was obviously heavier than it looked.

  "As thanks for saving my life, it seemed only fitting that I perhaps save yours in the future."

  It was hard, and heavy, and gritty. Chain mail.

  “With that,” Dalliance said slowly, "All debts are square?"

  Sterling nodded. "On my part as well. Father is getting Immaculate measured for his own set."

  Not a special gesture for Dalliance, then, just something tacked onto the gesture his father was already making. Still, with this done with he'd be willing to plot without feeling guilty about it.

  "This may have to be taken in a bit to fit you, so you will be measured—"

  He was cut off by Charity's loud exclamation. "Do not touch me, Mister Lackey! I do not return your affections!"

  Sterling and Dalliance turned in unison to observe Woebegone Lackey's arm falling to his side from where it had previously touched the forearm of Charity Troubles. The youth's face was red, and he stormed off precipitously after a hasty apology failed to find its mark.

  "That lad," said Sterling, "cannot catch a break." His tone made Dalliance's skin itch.

  Dalliance hadn’t given a lot of thought to how one might fight the bear, but his later practice session with Topaz yielded interesting insights.

  "I can’t do it," he said miserably. He was sitting cross-legged, shirtless, on the roof of the schoolhouse, feeling the breeze, letting his hair blow. He cursed it. It was long and looked stupid, but Topaz had told him to think of it as a blessing that it was long enough for this exercise. "Let your hair blow freely. Feel where it goes. "It said the Four Winds would listen to me, and there’s nothing."

  He had, the day before, attempted to pour water droplets and watch them move, to watch the smoke rise from a tallow candle. These prescriptions had not proven their worth. As it turned out, a thorough understanding of a topic did not necessarily indicate the ability to teach it. And while Dalliance would never suggest that Topaz was less than an expert, she was certainly more whimsical in her approach than he found useful.

  "'It’s the chant that’s wrong," she told him again. "We have to work on your mental model. When you’re speaking, you feel the resonance in your facial mask. You need to project your sound through your unicorn horn." And she made a grasping gesture at her forehead, as before. This completely failed to tell him anything new.

  The pixie sighed and sat down on the roof beside him. "We’re going to get you there," she said, "though I confess I expected to do so more quickly. Don’t be discouraged. Even if I fail you, the instructors at the Academy will figure you out."

  He didn't mean to, but telling him this did not have the intended reassuring effect.

  "Fine," she said, after observing his reaction. "Let’s speak of something else for a time. Let your anxiety fall away."

  The minuscule weight of the pixie landed on his shoulder.

  "Well," he said, the word 'anxiety' bringing to mind a topic of interest, "I have to fight a bear, later."

  She gave him a look but considered his implied question seriously. "Well," she said frankly, "with your abilities, a bear is a horrible match. You should endeavor to avoid fighting this bear."

  This was not what Dalliance had hoped to hear.

  She elaborated. "Even should this teaching work, you will have more utility saving others from the bear, should they fall, than attempting to hurt it yourself.” [Locomotion] moved a two-hundred-pound object fifty feet in a couple of seconds, gently. It was a terrible combat spell.

  Although he could imagine dropping something with it, she still had a point.

  With that cheery piece of information in mind—that the best way to fight the bear was not to fight the bear—Dalliance went to bed that night, and dreamed of the upcoming quarterly exams.