The assembly line was long and straight.
Adele stood somewhere in the middle of it, eyes forward. The morning air was cool but her chest felt tight, the way it always did now in open spaces — like the world was too wide and she had lost the person who made it feel smaller.
The whispers started before she could settle into the stillness.
"That's her… the cursed girl."
Her jaw tightened. Just barely.
"Her father's banned, her mother's dead — even her best friend too."
She exhaled slowly through her nose. Her eyes stayed forward.
"Who knows who'll die next if they stay close to her."
Something moved through her — hot and fast — and she pressed it down hard. Not here. She had somewhere to be after this. She had a board on Mara's table with a name pinned at the center of it and she was not going to waste what little she had left on people who weren't worth the fire.
She stared straight ahead until the bell rang.
The classroom felt smaller than she remembered. Adele took a seat near the back and folded her hands on the desk, watching the door.
The teacher entered. Her gaze swept the room and landed on Adele the way everyone's did lately — a half second too long, weighted with something between pity and caution.
"This is your senior year," she began. "Adele. Stand."
Adele stood.
The room went quiet. She could feel it — every pair of eyes turning toward her like she was something to be examined. She kept her face even.
"You missed a great deal last semester. Given your circumstances, you will be permitted to rewrite your exams today." The teacher paused. "And for questioning the council's law — you are assigned to clean Mr. Cranfield's office for the rest of the week."
"Yes, ma'am," Adele said.
She sat down. She unfolded her hands. She picked up her pen.
She was so tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixed — the kind that sat behind your eyes and followed you everywhere. But she was here. She was still here. And that had to count for something.
Mr. Cranfield's office smelled like old paper and neglect. Adele moved through it quietly, shelf by shelf, corner by corner. She didn't mind the silence. Inside the silence she could think.
She thought about the board. About the lines she had drawn connecting name to name until they all curved back to the same point. About the smile that had pulled at her mouth before she could stop it.
Start the fire from the bottom.
She wiped the last shelf, shut the windows, drew the curtains, and closed the door.
Four more days.
Monday a guard appeared at the classroom door.
"Lord Emmanuel wishes to see you."
She followed him through the stone hallway, her footsteps quiet. The room behind the assembly hall was plain and still. Emmanuel stood by the window with his back to her. He turned when she entered.
She waited.
"Money from the treasurer's office was stolen," he said. "A quarter of it."
"I didn't take anything," Adele said. "My punishment ended last week."
"The treasurer says nothing like this ever happened before you arrived."
She looked at him. There it was — that familiar shape of blame, passed from hand to hand until it landed on whoever was easiest to accuse. She had seen it her whole life. She was so deeply tired of it.
"Have you questioned the guards?" she asked, keeping her voice level. "Or Mr. Cranfield? Or is it just easier to blame the girl who was there to clean?"
Emmanuel's eyes sharpened. "What did you just say?"
"I said—" she held his gaze, steady, "—that I am no longer assigned to that office. I haven't been for days. If you're looking for your thief, look closer to the vault." She bowed her head slightly. "Judge this carefully, Lord Emmanuel. Please."
She turned and walked out before the silence could swallow her.
In the hallway, alone, she let out a long breath.
Her hands were shaking. Just a little. She pressed them flat against her sides and kept walking.
In the hallway, alone, she let out a long breath.
Her hands were shaking. Just a little. She pressed them flat against her sides and kept walking.
Outside, the courtyard was loud with the noise of midday — girls crossing between buildings, voices overlapping, the ordinary sound of a world that had not stopped moving just because hers had shattered.
Adele stood at the edge of it for a moment.
She thought of Mara. She always thought of Mara.
Then she tucked it away — deep and careful, the way you carry something breakable — and stepped into the noise.
She had work to do.