The rebel

We’re similar in number, but our appearance couldn’t be more different. If Kingmakers were a high school cafeteria, the Heirs would be the cool kids: confident, well-dressed, already assembling their circle of admirers.

The Spies are, to put it bluntly, the misfits.

The baker’s dozen Freshman Spies show a clear tendency toward heavy piercings, strange tattoos, exotic hair colors, and dour expressions.

Then there’s me. I stand there like a lamb among wolves. A schoolgirl in the center of a biker gang.

I can feel the other Spies looking at me, and I don’t know how to wipe the stupid doe-eyed expression off my face.

Our guide is a tall, lanky Senior wearing an oversized olive-green sweater vest and a pair of shredded trousers tucked into military boots. His long dark hair hangs over his ears and his hoop earring makes him look a bit like a pirate.

I’ve already noticed that while Kingmakers students are required to wear uniforms, they seem to have no compunction about styling said uniforms according to their personal preference.

“I’m Saul Turner,” our guide says lazily. “I’ll show you to the Undercroft.”

I have no idea what an Undercroft is, and I don’t want to be the one to ask. I fall in line behind Saul, pulling my suitcase along beside me.

Saul leads us to what looks like the very center of the Kingmakers grounds, to the largest and grandest of the buildings.

“This is the Keep,” he a

I wasn’t paying attention to much after the mention of “combat classes.” When exactly are those going to start? I just know I’m go

My stomach feels heavy as a stone.

Saul continues walking toward the Armory. We trail after him like a row of obedient ducklings.

“The Undercroft runs all the way under there,” he points to the long expanse of open lawn between the Armory and the dining hall.

“Where?” a grouchy-looking girl with a septum piercing demands. She looks around as if expecting a dormitory to materialize from thin air.

“Right under your feet,” Saul laughs.

“We’re sleeping in a basement?” the girl sneers, crossing her arms disdainfully over her chest. Her long nails are filed into points, with silver rings on every finger.

“More of a cellar,” Saul says. He seems impervious to rudeness, or to any other emotion we might send in his direction. I get the feeling one of us could be struck with lightning right in front of him and he wouldn’t bat an eye. “We go in through here,” he says.

We follow him inside a building much too small to house thirteen students. From the rusted empty racks on the walls and the pungent scent of fermented grapes, I think this used to be a wine cellar.

It’s not our final destination. Saul leads us toward a wide staircase descending even deeper into the earth, its dark opening gaping like a mouth.

I don’t like tight spaces. And I definitely don’t like the dark.

My heart is already hammering against my ribs before I even set foot on the stairs.

Even the sulky girl with the nose ring looks slightly u

I’m relieved to see warm light at the foot of the stairs. Even more relieved to see that the Undercroft is, at least, not cramped. The domed stone roof is almost twenty feet high, with thick supporting pillars ru

The first portion of this long tu

“Two to a room,” Saul says. “Only the ones in the middle are empty, ‘cause the upperclassmen claimed everything close to the bathroom and the stairs.”

We walk down the hallway, cautious in the dim lamplight.

The double row of doors are identical, but it’s easy to tell which have been claimed, as their owners have decorated the scarred wood with stickers and patches. I notice that no one has put up a name tag. You wouldn’t be able to find a particular room without already knowing the patch on the door.

The bare doors in the center are the ones up for grabs.

There’s a flurry as the Freshmen Spies hustle inside their chosen spaces. It takes me a moment to realize that everyone has already paired off. I stand stupidly in the hallway until only me and the sulky pierced girl are left without roommates.

She stares at me with an expression of disgust even greater than when she learned we’d be rooming underground.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she says.

Her disdain hits me like a slap.

I know I shouldn’t care what she thinks of me, but I’ve never been able to ignore other people’s opinions.

Humiliating tears prick the corners of my eyes.

Oh my fucking god, I’m not going to cry in front of this girl. Not on the first day of school.

I squeeze my fists so hard that my nails bite into my palms.

“Tough break,” I say stiffly. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

The girl rolls her eyes and stomps into the nearest empty room.

Steeling my nerves, I follow her inside.

I expected it to look like a prison cell, but actually our dorm is neat and clean. The beds are low and narrow, rather pretty with headboards and footboards in carved dark wood. We each have our own dresser. The room smells of cedar, soapstone, and clean earth. No sense of damp or rot.

The only thing lacking is a window.

Two soft, golden lamps provide the only light, because we are indeed deep underground.

My new roommate looks around silently, appraising the space.

“I’m Catalina, by the way,” I say. My voice sounds simultaneously timid and over-loud in the small, shared space. “My friends call me Cat.”

The other girl glares at me, like she wishes I would spontaneously combust.

“Don’t talk to me,” she says.

She jerks a book out of her backpack and flops down on her bed.

I start to quietly unpack my own suitcase, neatly re-folding my clothes before slipping them into the dresser drawers.

My wardrobe is easy to organize because all the pieces of the uniform mix and match together: five crisp white dress shirts, six plaid skirts (three green, three gray), a sage-green pullover and another in white. Two gray sweater-vests and one in black. Five pairs of knee socks and five pairs of tights. One academy jacket, also black, with a crest on the breast pocket. Then our gym clothes.

I spend much longer on the task than is strictly necessary, not wanting to sit in frosty silence with my sullen roommate.

I don’t even know her name—I was too distracted when Saul read his list aloud. A proper Spy would have paid attention, matching each name with its corresponding student.

That’s probably why she scoffed at me when I introduced myself—she already knew my name and everybody else’s.

God, I’m fucking this up so bad already.

I sneak one quick peek at the girl, propped up on her pillow with the book in her hands.