Destiny is measured in inches. One move in the wrong direction or one faulty gesture can erase a lifetime of preparation. The weight of that truth tightened my muscles as I lined up for class with the other novitiates. Beneath the taut, hooded scarves covering our hair, we looked alike: wide eyes anxious and alert, cheeks hollow from years of relentless training, identical blue tunics and leggings. We were the remnant, the few dozen women who had endured each level.

I raised my chest against the gravity of my fear. One week stood between me and the pure-white fabric of final acceptance into the Order. This was a time for determination, not doubt. A slight breeze through an arched window cooled my cheeks. Outside, the primary sun lit the tiled courtyard, while the subsun hugged the horizon, painting the stone with pinks and reds.

An attendant opened the studio door. Time for class and another chance to prove myself. I pressed into the floor with my toes, rolling through the tendons of my bare feet, careful to maintain even spacing as I took my place in the vaulted room. Cold marble threatened to cramp my feet, but soon I would be worthy to dance on the warm bare earth of Meriel.

If I passed the pattern test.

If the saltars approved me.

If I made no mistake during the next week.

Saltar Kemp limped to the front of the class, rhythm sticks clenched between arthritic fingers. She studied our silent ranks, eyes narrowing as she sought out flaws. Was I the exact number of inches from the women to either side of me? Did my leggings settle just above my anklebone? Was my spine perfectly aligned?

I held my breath.

Her eventual smile encompassed the room, fine lines bunching on her wizened features. “You must remember to breathe. Such concentration is good, but too much tension is as bad as none.” She tapped a slow beat with her sticks. “Four counts to breathe in. Four counts out. That’s better. Now begin nolana pattern three.”

My heart rose. I loved that pattern. I loved all the patterns. I thrived on the challenge of memorizing them, reversing them, repeating them in endless variations.

We began to move to our saltar’s counts. I slid one leg to the side, foot caressing the floor, then lifted the leg, balancing, rotating, careful to match my movements to the other dancers.

“Remember.” Saltar Kemp’s hoarse voice melded into the steady clacking. “Your feet will push the earth to turn our world. It is a holy calling. You do well to tremble within, but keep your faces calm.”

We lunged and poured our bodies forward. We moved like channels of water, divided as if by an unseen boulder into two streams that circled the room, arching, flowing, reaching.

A ripple disturbed the flow. The novitiate in front of me opened her left arm instead of her right. The saltar’s sticks clattered to the floor.

We all froze.

“Novitiate Alcea Blue, step forward.” The saltar who was usually our most gentle now gave no quarter. No hint of frailty colored her voice. Alcea walked forward, the bend of her shoulders pleading for forgiveness.

“You may leave. Your designation is removed. Your time in the Order is over.”

None of us dared gasp, and I bit my cheek to keep my mouth shut. We’d witnessed dismissals dozens of times over the years, but this was only one week from our final test. And—my heart clenched as Saltar Kemp’s words sank in—this was more than a demotion to servant. Alcea was being completely cast out.

“Please.” Her voice quavered. “May I at least stay on as an attendant?”

Remorse flickered in Saltar Kemp’s eyes, but she hardened her jaw. “Did you think your constant questioning of authority would go unnoticed? The flaws in your dance are not your only failing.”

Breaking all protocol, Alcea ran from the room, her sob ringing against the cold walls. Pity swelled behind my ribs. Each of us grew up without a parent’s love. We forfeited hope of husbands, children, or any community but the Order. To sacrifice so much and lose it now. . .

I closed my eyes, listening for the four counts that would signal our return to the pattern. When fear or doubt arose, there was always the pattern. The pattern comforted. The pattern never changed.

Hours later, my skin wore the sheen of sweat and triumph. I’d survived another class. So close to admittance to the Order, the chance for failure only grew. If an experienced dancer could be cast out because she had a reputation for raising questions and she made a small error, I needed to guard myself each second of the days that remained.

As we left the practice hall, we filed past the former novitiate huddled on the floor. Tears stained her cheeks. Dismissed from the Order, even her name was stricken. We couldn’t speak to her or offer the silent comfort of a touch. Still, my hand reached out, and I hoped the small gesture conveyed sympathy.

“Calara Blue, a word please.” Saltar Kemp’s call snapped me back to reality.

Head down, I hurried to the doorway where she waited. Had she noticed my wavering? I peeked at the saltar’s expression.

She cast a grim glance down the hall, but then dusted off her hands and relaxed her frown as she addressed me. “We have an absence in faculty for next hour’s first form. Please regarb and teach them. I’ll inform you of other schedule changes tomorrow.”

“Of course.” I turned toward the stairs leading up to the dormitories. Saltar Kemp touched my arm. “And not a word about this to the students. Explain only that you’re substituting.”

“I understand.”

“Please.” A desperate whisper came from the former novitiate. She unfolded from the floor and approached the saltar. “I can teach the last class before I leave. Let me say goodbye to the children.”

Saltar Kemp stared past her, stepped back into the studio, and closed the door.

Throughout my rush to prepare and then teach the first-form girls, an unsettled confusion twisted in my stomach. I hurt for the rejected woman, feared for my own place, and then felt ashamed of my selfish fear.

At suppertime I had no appetite, so I bypassed the communal hall and slipped outside to find solace in the Order’s gardens. Stone troughs held cultivated flowers, grasses, and vines. Whenever I walked among them, they offered me a rare and treasured moment of peace. Reeds and ferns and berries and flowers, even the stinging leaves of the lanthrus—each held its own beauty. Cobblestone surfaced all the ground, muting the slight ripples that rolled through the earth. I paused before my friend’s namesake, the alcea flower. As I leaned forward to smell the delicate blossoms, my eyes pooled with tears I dared not cry. I was no longer allowed even to think her name. Was it possible that a woman I ate and slept and danced with for so long could be erased so completely? Would I become nothing to those I left behind if I failed my test?

I plucked a flower and let my lips brush its soft petals. I couldn’t use her name, but I would honor her in memory each time I saw her namesake.

A gust of wind sent cold fingers across the back of my neck. I pulled my linen cloak closer, following the stone path under a trellis archway. Outside the Order’s wall, a full view of the sunset stretched out in a panorama. Violet streaks warned of a coming storm, and dark clouds approached. Past the wide ring of fields that separated the Order from Middlemost, the nearby town spread around it like flower petals. Garrisons, meeting halls, kitchens, and storage buildings came first, with layers of homes and small shops forming a larger circle. The town basked in the blessing of the Order rising at its core, as did our entire island.

Beyond Middlemost stretched forests and plains, farms and grazing land, with vast distances separating the many villages we served. Even farther—a journey of weeks or months, depending on who spoke of it—the rim villages stubbornly scrabbled a life from the undulating lands near the sea.

How had I been so lucky? If not for the Order’s rescuing me, I could be suffering in the poverty and chaos of a rim village today. Although we didn’t speak of the outside world, everyone knew life beyond the Order was governed by strife and uncertainty.

I followed the path around a bend of the courtyard’s outer walls and heard the murmur of voices ahead of me. When I rounded the curve, a laborer in coarse trousers and a stained leather vest blocked my view of a woman standing beyond him. He crouched to pick up a sack, allowing me to glimpse her.

I gasped.

Alcea’s blue eyes stared into mine. Terror lit her face as she pulled the hood of her cloak forward. The man spun, his hand moving to a longknife in his belt. His fair hair was playful and windswept, but his eyes glinted steel. If this man thought to prey on a castoff, he would rue the day. I hurried toward them. “What are you doing here?”

His dismissive gaze swept me before he handed Alcea—no, I must only think of her as the castoff—a bundle. “Thank you,” she whispered.

He spared a terse nod and pointed to a mark on a parchment map. “It’s only three days’ journey to Salis. You’ll find help there.”

She leaned heavily on a walking stick. A bandage wrapped her right ankle and foot. Tossing aside all the rules, I touched her shoulder. “What happened to you?”

The man turned his dirt-streaked face in my direction. Anger pulsed along his unshaven jawline and he sneered. “As if you don’t know.”

My foot felt for the path behind me, and I edged back a step. Had he caused her injury? Violence seemed like a familiar acquaintance to him.

“She doesn’t know,” the former novitiate said to him. “None of us did.” Her quiet voice betrayed a brokenness far worse than the slump of her once-proud back, or the way she favored her right leg. She raised her palm to me in farewell. “You’ve been a good friend. Be careful.”

I nervously scanned for any sign of a prefect or saltar. “And you.” I mouthed the words, throat constricted.

She limped away, and I directed my frustration at the man. “Who are you? Why is she hurt?”

“Brantley of Windswell. Who are you?”

I raised my chin. “Calara Blue.”

“Not your designation. Your true name. Before you were sold to the Order.”

A memory tugged, a whisper, a word, but I tamped it down. “We have no life before the Order. We speak of nothing outside.” My designation was a point of pride. The calara reed reflected so much of what a dancer must be—well rooted, yet supple. The calara patterns were some of the most complicated.

He snorted. “A shadow of a shadow. Named for a pattern that’s named for a plant.”

How dare he scorn me? He was a rough man from some midrange village, or even the rim. He hadn’t the least understanding of our work. “You haven’t answered my question. What did you do to her?” My gaze followed the path across the field that my former classmate had taken away from the Order.

He crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. “The saltars hobbled her. Sliced the tendon. They do it to all the castoffs. Can’t have novitiates dancing anywhere besides the Order after they leave.”

The turmoil that had churned in my stomach all afternoon pressed up into my throat. “No. Never! How dare you?” She must have injured herself while preparing to leave. But why invent such a ridiculous story?

He condemned the whole Order with his answering glare. Condemned me. “Why should I expect you to see facts in front of your nose? They don’t even allow you to think for yourself.”

An ugly lie. “The Order preserves our entire world. If they—”

“Ah, the benevolent Order.”

My core muscles tightened, holding back nausea. I clung to anger for strength. “You mock our calling. What essential vocation do you claim?”

“One of the landkeepers is ill. I’m filling in for a few weeks.” He shifted his weight, a subtle change, but obvious to my dancer-trained eyes. He was lying.

I stepped closer. “I should report you to the saltars.”

He tossed back his head and laughed. “And confess that you spoke with a castoff?” With the speed of a harrier prey bird, he pushed away from the wall and grabbed my arm. He tugged me close. He smelled of the sweet ocean . . . an aroma I hadn’t known in years.

My heart pounded an unsteady rhythm.

His voice was a low growl. “You may think you could expose me, but you’d do well to remember I’m an equal danger to you. You forgot to treat Alcea as invisible. One word about this, and you’ll be the next hobbled castoff.” He shoved me aside and strode away from the Order toward the uneven buildings of Middlemost, careless of where he placed his feet.

I rested a hand against the cool stone of the outer courtyard wall, shaking. He was right. I’d breached a primary rule. I didn’t dare speak of any of this. But what if he was a danger to the Order? There were rumors of enemies from the rim seeking to disrupt our work.

Drawing on my discipline, I uncurled my spine, lifted from the center of my head, and found my alignment. My lips would remain sealed for the time being, but I would stay alert and watch for any sign of Brantley lurking nearby. Meanwhile I needed to remain focused to prepare for my test.

Hurried footsteps approached from the courtyard. An irritated prefect appeared, his hair damp with sweat. “Saltar Kemp is calling for you. Her office.”

I gave a submissive nod, hoping to hide my fear.

He didn’t wait for a response, but walked away, expecting instant obedience.

Before following the prefect inside, I let my gaze travel up to the building encircling our world’s center. Dozens of windows on the outer ring overlooked the courtyards and the tangle of Middlemost below. A huge brass telescope perched on the rooftop parapets. It was as though I was on stage, every misstep on display. Someone could have seen me talking to the dismissed novitiate. Was the destiny to which I’d given my life about to crumble?