I TAKE A seat on one of the maroon couches in the assessment office, which is mostly lit by the glow of flames coming from a large fireplace. Portraits of sour-looking old men and women cover the walls, and the ceiling is crossed with wooden beams. I drag my boot along a faded rug and look out the tall, narrow window, which reveals nothing but thick tree branches.

Dr. Conner places a silver tray bearing steaming-hot bread, butter, and jam on the table in front of me. My stomach rumbles in response. There are few things in the world better than fresh bread. And because of the drugging, I’m not even sure how long it’s been since I last ate.

“Now, November, I’m going to ask you a series of questions,” Dr. Conner says as he lowers himself onto the couch across from me. His accent sounds British, and he wears a black blazer similar to Blackwood’s, only his has a maroon pocket square. If I had to guess, he’s about my dad’s age or maybe even a few years younger.

“The most important thing is that you answer honestly,” Dr. Conner says as he crosses his legs and opens a leather folder. “It will greatly increase our chances of getting you into the appropriate classes. As it’s unusual for us to accept a student midyear, especially one as old as you, we don’t have the time to leisurely assess your strengths and weaknesses the way we normally would.”

“Absolutely. Fire away,” I say as my brain races through its own assessment. Conner—deriving from cunnere, meaning “inspector,” and cun, meaning “to examine.” “Did you get any transcripts from my school?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Certainly not. I can assure you that none of that information exists here. And everything said in this office is confidential and used only for teaching purposes. No one else has access to your files besides Headmaster Blackwood and myself.”

Layla’s and Blackwood’s warnings ring in my head. Did he think I was testing him to see if any of my personal information was on record here?

“Oh, good. Then let’s tackle your questions,” I say with less pep.

He runs his hand over his short beard and frowns at me. “Are you an introvert or an extrovert?”

“Extrovert. Hundred percent,” I reply.

“Do you have any injuries that currently limit your movements?”

“Nope. No injuries.”

“Which level of balance most accurately describes you—the ability to walk a ledge, a tree branch, or a tightrope?”

I can feel my forehead scrunching as I consider my answer. Where is he possibly going with this? It feels more like an assessment for playing extreme sports than for a school. “Tree branch. Are there really people at this school who can walk a tightrope?”

“Climbing skills?” Conner asks, ignoring my question.

“Excellent.”

He looks up for a brief moment. “How excellent?”

It’s starting to seem like none of these questions are going to be about my academic strengths. “Trees are my best, but I can climb rocks, shinny up poles…basically, if there is a texture and a handhold, I can climb it. It’s sort of a—” I stop myself before telling him that there’s a running bet among my friends in Pembrook about what I can climb and how fast. Rule number one, I remind myself.

He lifts his eyebrows. “Nighttime or daytime?”

“Either.”

“Nighttime or daytime?”

“Really, both are fine.”

“I’m glad you think so,” he says in a way that tells me he’s not glad. “But when I give you a choice, I expect you to choose.”

I shift my position on the couch even though I don’t need to. “Nighttime.”

“Why?” he says, and looks up at me.

“Well,” I say, and pause. “Darkness doesn’t bother me, and it can be really useful sometimes.”

He nods and jots down a note, which by this point in this bizarre conversation I would really like to see.

“Which of your senses would you say is the strongest?”

“Huh, okay, let me think.” When I was little, Dad and I started playing this game where one person was blindfolded and would follow the other through the woods and away from the house for five minutes. The leader would zigzag and go in circles, trying to confuse the blindfolded person as much as possible. But if the blindfolded one could find their way back to the house, they won. I always did it by listening and by touching the trees. Dad swore he did it mostly by scent, which I still think is unbelievable. He started designing outdoor strategy games like the blindfold game after my mom died when I was six. We’d go on camping trips for long weekends and he’d teach me all sorts of tricks—survival skills, I guess is what they really were, though they felt more like puzzles or games back then. He never admitted it, but I think he was trying to find ways to exhaust me physically and mentally and keep me from asking questions about my mom.

Conner clears his throat. “Next question.”

“Wait, I have my answer.”

He looks at me pointedly. “I said next question, November.”

“Some combination of touch and hearing,” I say quickly before he can start talking again, not because I couldn’t pass on the question, but because I don’t like to be silenced.

He doesn’t react. “Would you rather climb a tree, go out to sea, or be pain-free?”

I hesitate. Dad used to give me these kinds of personality tests as a sort of riddle. I always teased him that it was a carry-over from his former life in the CIA. But what I want to know now is what going out to sea, my strongest sense, and whether I like day or night have to do with anything.

“It’s not a difficult question,” Conner says, and my brain snaps into motion.

Climb a tree probably means you just want to have fun or live in the moment. Go out to sea? Leave where you are, feeling unsatisfied with your current situation. Be pain-free…other than the obvious meaning, I’m actually not sure about this one.

Conner pulls at his beard and looks between me and the folder as he jots down notes.

“Be pain-free,” I say, even though climb a tree is definitely the most accurate for me. However, if there’s one thing I get the sense this school doesn’t value, it’s having carefree fun.

He grunts. “And your capacity for spatial relations?”

“Solid.”

“Athletic stamina?”

“I’ve always played a lot of sports…so I would say strong.”

“Codes?”

“As in breaking them?” Boy, this guy doesn’t spare a word he doesn’t have to.

“As in breaking or creating.”

I shrug. “No experience.”

He looks up at me for a second and I get the sense that he doesn’t believe me. “Okay, good. That will give us a starting point at least for class assignment.”

Class assignment—I now take it that the classes Blackwood and Layla described aren’t just electives, they are the curriculum. Not that I’m sad to give up math and English, but it’s also shocking that a prep school wouldn’t be more focused on academics.

Conner puts the leather folder on the table. He looks at the untouched tray of food. “Aren’t you going to have some bread and jam?”

“Thanks, but I’m good. Feel free to eat without me,” I say, trying not to make eye contact with the tempting bread.

“You must be hungry. You haven’t had breakfast yet,” he says, and smiles.

After they most likely drugged me on the plane, there is no way I’m eating this. I look at him squarely. “This is an assessment office and you’re assessing me, right? The only thing I can think is that the food is part of my assessment, and I’m not sure I want to find out what’s in it.”

His expression shifts, like he’s found something he was looking for. “You’re suspicious. Or maybe it’s just me that you don’t trust.”

For a second I’m taken aback. This is the first time anyone has ever called me suspicious. And somehow this comment feels different from the others, like he’s probing my psyche as opposed to just collecting information. “I don’t like to make the same mistake twice,” I say carefully.

He waits a beat, and I can practically see the wheels in his head turning, making decisions about me. It’s strangely uncomfortable to be assessed when you don’t know what people are looking for or what types of conclusions they are coming to.

Conner leans back on the couch, and his casual posture almost appears welcoming, like I’m talking to one of my friends’ dads, not an uptight assessment officer. Dad. A pang of homesickness grips my empty stomach.

“How much do you know about the Academy, November?” Conner asks.

“Very little,” I say, and I can tell by his look that he takes it as the truth.

“Headmaster Blackwood asked that I speak to you a bit about our history and what is expected of you here,” he says, and I lean forward.

“Yes, please.” At this point I’ll take all the info I can get.

He folds his hands in his lap. “But,” he says with emphasis, “this brief introduction will not make up for the plethora of information that you have missed in your first two years.”

I get the sense that he’s warning me, which is baffling. Why would they let me in if they were so worried about everything I’ve missed?

“Before we get into all that, though—Headmaster Blackwood made rule number one clear to you, did she not?”

“Never reveal personal information about yourself or your family,” I say.

Conner nods. “We also ask that you use precautions with any students you might recognize. We understand it’s inevitable that some of you will know each other. But it’s in those moments when you are most comfortable that you will be the most vulnerable,” he says, and again I get the feeling that he’s fishing for something.

“Not a problem,” I say. “I don’t know anyone.”

He looks at me for a long moment and clears his throat. “Now, let’s see here….The Academy was designed and built by the original Council of Families as an elite institution for their best and brightest children. It was the first time that all of the Families worked together toward a common goal. It was agreed then, as it is still agreed today, that strategic excellence and safety among their children be prioritized above politics.”

Now I’m officially lost. I want to ask him What politics? but he continues speaking before I can open my mouth.

“I cannot tell you the exact date this school was founded, as its secrecy has prevented some of that information from being recorded, although many estimate that it was approximately fifteen hundred years ago, roughly a thousand years after the first three original Families formed. What I can tell you is that Academy Absconditi has been housed in this particular building since 1013.” He lifts his chin a little higher, as though that’s a mark of pride.

Families—there’s that word again. When I questioned Layla about it, she acted like I was being intentionally annoying. Conner clearly assumes I know what it means, too, and I’m not sure I want him to know that I don’t. I nod as if I’m following.

“All students have the same required core classes,” Conner says. “And the choice of special electives like accents, martial arts, coding, boxing, archery, and horticulture. While levels of specific skills vary within each year of students, there is a strict divide between the elemental-level students in their first two years and the advanced-level students. If an elemental-level student cannot transition properly to advanced-level expectations, they are not permitted to stay.” Conner pauses in a way that makes me think he wants me to understand the gravity of his words.

“And because I’m seventeen, I’m guessing I’m in my third year and therefore an advanced-level student?” I say.

“You are. Now, we’ve been assured that your physical skills are sufficient. But the core class that links everything we do here is history. Unfortunately, you have missed two and a half years of lessons that not only reveal the stories of the original Families but also analyze the major historical events they influenced. It’s the strategy discussed in the context of these historical events that will shape your education here. Headmaster Blackwood only hopes that your tutors have been good enough that you do not slow down the other students. As I said, excellence is a must.”

History Is the Teacher of Life now makes perfect sense as the school motto. Also, I’m pretty sure my dad would kill me if he spent a ton of money to safeguard me in a remote private school only to have me sent home because I failed some cryptic history class. I rub my hands together. “And if I wanted to do some independent studying just in case? Is there a book I could read or something?”

Conner frowns for so long that I cough in the hope that the sound will make him stop staring. “I fear that if you don’t realize there’s no written record of that history, it may be altogether impossible for you to survive here with the other students.”

The word survive sends a chill through me. So I laugh. I laugh because I’m good at it, because it’s been my lifelong go-to in order to make people feel at ease, and because I get the distinct impression that I just revealed my hand and need to recover—fast. “I didn’t mean a book about Family history. I meant a book that might help me with, you know, the subtleties.”

He huffs like he’s unsure, but the threat has disappeared from his eyes.

“Or anything else you can think of,” I say. “I’m all ears.”

He relaxes into the pillows behind him. “Well, now, that is something you will just have to figure out for yourself.”

I open my mouth to respond but catch myself. What a jerk.

Dr. Conner stands. “Now if you’ll follow me, I have one final thing for you to do this morning.”

I get up off the plush couch and push my braid over my shoulder.

Conner pulls two chairs away from the wall and sets them up facing each other. I wait for him to sit down, but he doesn’t. Instead, he straightens his vest and stands behind the chair on the right. “Sit, please, in whichever seat you like.”

The chair he’s not standing behind would put my back to the door. I don’t know if it’s a feng shui thing or not, but it’s always bugged me to sit with my back to an exit. However, there’s no way I’m going to sit in the seat he’s standing two inches behind. I glance around, and instead of choosing, I sit on the floor with my back against the wall where the chairs originally stood.

I don’t bother to explain my actions and he doesn’t ask. No “I gave you a choice” speech this time, either. He just jots down more notes.

After a moment, Conner hands me a piece of paper with eight squares of color on it. “Please mark each color with a number, one being your favorite and eight being your least favorite. No need to overthink it. Just choose which colors you enjoy the most.”

I stare at him. First all those odd questions, and now a color test?

Conner offers me a pen and a pencil.

I take the pencil and mark a 1 next to yellow and a 2 next to green. They remind me of the sun and the trees and are exactly the opposite of being in this gloomy gray building. I mark a 3 next to red and the pencil breaks in my hand; the entire point comes off. I look up at Conner, who is watching me carefully and without surprise. He makes no effort to offer me the pen or a different pencil.

Is he waiting to see if I’ll ask for help? Screw that. I stick the pencil in my mouth and bite into the wood. Then I pull bits of it off with my fingernails until the exposed lead forms a crude tip and I continue marking the colors. Conner watches my every move.

I stand up when I’m finished and hand it back to him.

He nods at the paper, like it’s telling him things he already knows. “You may go,” he says over his shoulder as he walks back to his desk.

“Can I ask you something?” I say. “Was that food you offered me okay to eat?”

Conner turns around and pulls a small vial of something from his blazer. “The antidote,” he says, and smiles.

I stare at him in horror. I figured the food might be part of the assessment, but I didn’t actually predict that the guy who’s been charged with making sure I acclimate here was going to poison me.

He takes a seat at his desk. “And now you must go,” he says. “I have a schedule to keep.”

I grab the door latch. I can’t get out of his office fast enough.