I roll over in bed, hearing the crinkle of paper as I move, and sigh. The sheets of paper stuffed into my pillow aren't exactly conductive to sleep, but are necessary for my own peace of mind. I've gotten so paranoid about my roommates going through my things and finding my letters that I haven't just stuffed them into my pillowcase - I slit a hole in the pillow itself with my pocketknife, and slid the letters inside, among the polyfill stuffing. Not the best way to store letters flat, or for that matter, keep them somewhere I can easily pull them out again to read - but then again, I've found myself unwilling to re-read my husband's letters to me over the past few weeks. They're all the same - griping about the weather and the crowds, saying he's been busy without saying what, exactly, he's busy with. A few jokes about looking forward to our upcoming divorce which are meant to be light and witty, but which only make me feel depressed. All very friendly, all very polite, and all so impersonal that they make me want to scream.

And here, lying in the dark I see what's going to happen in the coming years, as though it were a film being projected on the back of my eyelids. The divorce, the not-a-date dinner afterward, the awkward small talk rehashing what he's already written to me in his letters, the growing silences over forkfuls of too-rich food. I'll pretend not to see the look of relief on Hieronymous's face when he finally drops me off at Iris before going back to England. The letters - I won't be able to not write to him - but his letters will start getting shorter week by week, phrase by phrase. The time between letters will grow, first by days, then by weeks. And then there will be a letter I send to him that goes unanswered, and I won't be able to summon the courage to write again, to tell him he's forgotten me.

And even if I do the thing that now seems more impossible with every passing day, and get into Oxford, I'll have only just enough fortitude to write and tell him. And he'll respond kindly, invite me to coffee or lunch somewhere in Oxbridge. When we meet, something about him will have changed slightly - he'll have cut his hair or gained weight around his face. And he'll make some remark about how I've grown up, and I'll pretend to laugh. And when I get up to go, it'll be me with an expression of relief on my face, thinking how funny, I used to think I was in love with him.

This projection is so strong that for a moment I think I really am there, running across a street to get back to campus for an afternoon class, looking back with a mix of nostalgia and embarrassment, thinking of how I used to lie awake at night on my bunk, despairing about how he'd gradually forget about me. And then Virginia rolls over with a snort, and the illusion breaks, and I'm back in the present - my sadness still raw and uncushioned by time.

If I had stayed there, it would be different, I can't help thinking. I could make him not want to get rid of me. That last night in England - he didn't kiss me like he wanted to be rid of me.

No, a more rebellious thought surfaces, but he sure pushed you away like he did.

I roll over again. Thinking like this is like tonguing a sore in my mouth - I know I shouldn't, that it will only make things worse. But I can't help it, all the same.

Professor Terrec, think about Professor Terrec.

I don't want to think about Professor Terrec any more than I want to think about Hieronymous, but I'm going to have to sooner or later. Although I hadn't seen him in the auditorium on Friday, this certainly doesn't mean that he won't have heard about my speech and subsequent landslide victory. And I can't even begin to guess what he might do about it. Even though my election speech seemed - still seems - like the right thing to do, now that all the adrenaline has seeped away, it also strikes me as pretty stupid.

Well whatever, I think. I'm supposed to be the brave one in this marriage, not the smart one. The thought doesn't comfort me much.

Between my tossing back and forth in bed and my brain tossing back and forth between professors Grabiner and Terrec, I get what feels like no sleep at all. By the time I climb quietly from my bunk on Saturday morning, I feel haggard and bleary. I pull on a uniform in the dark and trudge down the hall to the mail room.

Just get the mail out and then you can go on an extra long run, I think, and the thought of a nice run in the crisp autumn air cheers me up. Maybe I can even wear myself out enough to take a nap later, get myself back to feeling human.

I unlock the mail room door and push it in - and then freeze. All thought of runs and naps fly out of my head. Professor Terrec is sitting at the mail room table, his hands folded before him.

Waiting for me, I think, a freezing gush of terror seeming to spill over me. What's he going to do, expel me here and now, just like the girl who'd had the mp3 player?

And then it hits me - no, not like her. Because he'd expelled her in front of a crowd of freshmen, to teach them a lesson. And for my own, very public transgression, he won't be content with a private expulsion. He'll want to do whatever he's going to do to me in front of a crowd - maybe the entire school. So whatever he's planning, it won't happen in an empty room at five in the morning - at least, I hope it won't.

So I screw up my courage and walk calmly into the room, pulling up a chair to the table at which Professor Terrec is sitting. He raises his eyebrows slightly at this, and I belatedly realize that I probably ought to have waited until he invited me to sit. Oh well - I'd never been that good about etiquette, anyway.

Only when I am seated I say "Good morning, Professor Terrec."

"Good morning... Miss Moon," Professor Terrec says in his not-quite-an-accent. "I came to congratulate you on your victory."

"Thank you," I say, as calmly and evenly as I'm able, waiting for the inevitable 'but.' Professor Terrec draws the pause out, sucking his teeth a little.

"I must say," he finally says, "that I hadn't expected such cynicism in one so young."

This throws me. "What do you mean?" I ask, throwing in a "sir," just in time.

He blinks at me serenely, in no hurry to answer. I have to force myself from squirming under his indigo eyes. They seem so bright that I wonder if they're dyed contacts - or possibly a sign of some enormous magical power. They're also - I can't help thinking - incredibly beautiful. If Professor Terrec hadn't been such a fascist creep, and if I hadn't been married, I might have been swooning over him as badly as Pastel.

"Playing on the fears of your fellow students to win a class office," he says. "You are, of course, permitted to use any election tactic you please, although that does strike me as being in rather poor taste."

I'm momentarily too stunned to speak. Does he think I just made that whole speech, just to win the election? And then I realize - no, he doesn't think that. But he's giving me the chance to take it back. To say I didn't mean it.

"I'm afraid you're mistaken," I say, as clearly as I can. "I meant every word of that speech."

"Ah," Professor Terrec replies, not even bothering to act surprised. To my immense relief, he turns the force of his gaze from me, and stares off into space, his features taking on that dreamy, unfocused look. He sits still, staring into space for so long that I begin to wonder whether he's forgotten that I'm here.

Finally, he speaks again. "A child," he says, "does not understand why e mustn't play with knives. And when es mother takes them away from em, e believes that she is being cruel. Do you understand?"

"Yeah," I say, "but that analogy's... inapt," I retort, using one of my dad's legal words and hoping that it means what I think it means. "A good mother teaches the child that knives are sharp, and teaches em how to use them when e's older. She doesn't just throw em out on the street if e makes a mistake. And anyway, we're not babies."

The look Professor Terrec gives me then mixes bemusement with pity with distaste, as though he were looking at some scruffy, flea-bitten primate trying to do something reserved for humans - smoking a cigarette, maybe, imitating the motions of the smokers around it, lacking the intelligence to understand that it doesn't belong. A phrase pops into my head - it thinks it's people.

"But you are," Professor Terrec softly. "You, in particular, are."

I bristle at this condescension. "Why?" I ask. "Just because I'm wildseed?"

Professor Terc doesn't seem to register the sharpness in my voice - his face remains serene as he says "of course."

I'm so aghast at this answer that I start to splutter. "But - that's - that's not-"

Professor Terrec continues to stare at me, and I find myself unable to finish the phrase, instead sputtering into silence.

Professor Terrec's mouth turns up at the corners. "Were you going to say fair?" he asks. "And you were insisting that you're not a baby." He gives a dry chuckle, and I feel my face heating to what must be a furious shade of red.

"Well it isn't fair," I snap. "You don't get to treat me differently from anyone else just because I'm wildseed. I deserve the same education-"

"You deserve," Professor Terrec interrupts, tenting his fingers under his chin. "I find that such a fascinating concept. You children - you wildseeds, I should say, especially those native to this country - are always going on about what they deserve. As though it wasn't enough that you were born in a time and place where you would not be burned at the stake for being what you are."

"My country never burned witches at the stake," I snap. "They were hanged. Or pressed."

"Forgive me for failing to make the distinction," Professor Terrec says, a smirk playing on his features. "Mine did."

Given his name, I suppose he must mean France, which I suppose makes sense, considering his accent. Before I can think to say anything about this, he continues. "The manner of death notwithstanding, wildseeds have never been particularly valued. In fact, until the early twentieth century, your kind were not permitted to be taught magic at all."

I had no idea that this was the case, and I stare back at Professor Terrec in wondering shock. I want to call him a liar, but somehow I can't bring myself to say the words. Instead I ask, in a near whisper, "why not?"

"It was considered far too dangerous," Professor Terrec says in a matter-of-fact tone. "And, in fact, a little cruel. To take children from their families only to drop them into a world they don't understand, then watch them struggle to adapt. Even if they make a success of it - and many do not - they can never return to their families again. Terribly tragic." He throws the last phrase out as though he were tossing it over his shoulder. "They simply do not have the background to flourish in our world. Better to leave them where they are, poor things."

My fury at being referred to - even obliquely - as a "poor thing" makes me forget to be wary. "Don't you think I ought to be the one to make that choice?" I snap, forgetting to append my sentence with a "sir."

"How can I expect you to make a choice," Professor Terrec responds, "when you know nothing about this world, and understand nothing about this culture?"

"So teach us," I say.

"Why should I?" Professor Terrec replies, and the flippant way he says it stuns me into silence. I gape at him, mouth open, and probably looking ridiculous.

Professor Terrec leans forward, arms on the table to the elbows, his long, tapered fingers stretching in my direction. "Why should I waste my time on a wildseed who doesn't understand the gift e possesses - who runs toward danger instead of prudently running away? One who will likely get emself killed before another year goes by?"

It's just like what Hieronymous said about me on the first day we met, I think, chilly all over. But I steel myself, and then hiss through my teeth, "because it's your job."

For a fleeting moment, I think I've won the argument, but Professor Terrec only leans back again, a satisfied smirk on his face. "On that score," he says, "I'm afraid you may have been misinformed."

"So - what," I say, my anger overcoming any semblance of caution I may have felt. "You're here to expel us? Do the merciful thing? Put us out of our misery? No thanks."

Profesor Terrec's smirk dies a little bit at the corners. "I'm quite surprised to hear the wife of the seventeenth Lord Montague speaking to me in such a fashion," he says. "I have been made aware that your marriage took place under unusual circumstances, but surely he has made you aware that as the wife of such an illustrious personage, you have certain appearances to uphold?"

For a moment, I'm too stunned to respond. Does he mean etiquette? My vows of kindness and courage? "I don't know what you mean," I say at last.

Now Professor Terrec has stopped smiling altogether, and is looking at me with an intense curiosity. "What I mean, Lady Montague, is your obedience to your husband's orders. Surely Lord Montague cannot have required you to make such a spectacle of yourself yesterday afternoon."

"I don't have to be obedient!" I say hotly. "I keep my independence, even if we are married! He told me so!"

"And he has retained this view throughout your entire marriage?" Professor Terrec asks.

"I don't see how that's any of your business," I say, "but yes."

Professor Terrec's hands rise in front of him, a quick, unconscious gesture, and I brace myself, thinking he's going to cast a spell on me. But instead, he freezes, hands paused in mid-air, eyes narrowing. Slowly, very slowly, he lowers his hands to the table.

"I see," he says. "In that case, it is not for me to interfere with the terms of your marriage. My duties, happily, lie elsewhere."

Before I can ask him what he means by this, Professor Terrec changes the subject. "Though I do have a duty to fulfill today, which is to inform you about your next task for the sophomore class - preparation for the Dark Dance this month."

"Why?" I ask. "Don't we just do incense?"

Professor Terrec gives me that bemused, pitying look again, and I realize my mistake. The freshmen do the incense - now that we're sophomores, we're probably in charge of something else.

"No," Professor Terrec says. "The sophomore class is in charge of decor."

I'm so irritated at myself for making the slip, I forget again to be polite. "Why?" I ask again. "There's no reason to decorate - it's dark."

Professor Terrec stands in one fluid motion and begins to walk to the door. "If you are so insistent that you can understand my culture," he says, "perhaps you can determine this for yourself. Good morning." The door clicks behind him, and Professor Terrec is gone.

I find myself unable to sit still. I jump up from the seat and grab a double handful of mail, trying to ignore my own hands shaking as I sort it on the table. My brain can't quite seem to grasp the import of the conversation - was it some kind of warning? But why bother warning me? If he wants to expel me, why doesn't he just do it? Professor Potsdam already told me there was nothing she could do to stop him.

I grab another double handful of mail. The envelopes slide through my fingers, the papers rasping against each other. During my sorting, I unearth a thick blue envelope addressed to Ahmed - Damien I bet, it's the same flowing handwriting, and no return address. I continue to sort the mail, but find no envelopes that respond to my touch - nothing from Hieronymous this week. I bury my disappointment in work, but my thoughts keep straying to the blue envelope. Once I'm finished with the rest of the mail, I pause at the Toad Hall pile, and pick Damien's letter to Ahmed up again. What must it be like to have a boyfriend who wrote you long, thick, heavy letters like that? If I had made another choice, if I'd told Damien we could be friends a year ago, would I have found out?

Or would it have been me bleeding on the floor of the gym?

I drop the blue envelope onto the stack for Toad Hall in a hurry. God, I think, why can't Ahmed and I just have normal boyfriends? That would be nice. We could go on double dates to the mall or maybe the Glen if we saved up our allowance. We could be laughing right now about whether we'd get asked to the Dark Dance, not fielding threats from the professors.

Of course, the Dark Dance has its own problems - I'm still inwardly cringing at my mistake about the incense, about the look of bemused pity and distaste Professor Terrec had given me.

If you're so insistent that you can understand my culture, he'd said. Well, fine, I decide. I can become Iris Academy's foremost expert on the Dark Dance - I have a few weeks after all. And maybe this will help me get going on my ambition to study history. You can't just read textbooks and become an historian, I decide. You have to have goals.

Cheered by this thought, I'm halfway to the door with my first pile of mail for delivery when I realize I've forgotten to sort out the allowances - which I usually do first thing.

When am I going to start doing things right for a change? I think, and with a sigh, sit back down at the mail table.