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pre-Apocalyptic days.”
    A few of the other students snickered. I gathered from their collective impatience they’d been there awhile. Theman in front of Ivy interpreted my staring as an invitation to chat. He pushed past her and extended his hand to me.
    “I’m Fitz,” he said.
    “Noon,” I replied, shaking his hand. His grip was firm and quick. The woman named Ivy turned around. With flaming red hair, a mottled complexion, and light green eyes, she looked every inch a Mederi. And with that name I had to wonder… but what would a Mederi be doing in law school? They were all about healing and growing.
    “This is Ivy, my cousin,” Fitz said. The family resemblance was strong, although Fitz’s hair was a few shades deeper and his complexion ruddier.
    “So, what section are you in?” Ivy asked. All first years were in one of three sections. You did everything with your section—took classes, studied, ate, and even slept in the same dorms together. The orientation materials had made it sound as if your section was a fishbowl. You’d be able to see the world around you but you wouldn’t be living in it. The only people who were going to share your life during the next year were the people in your section. I had the feeling my answer to Ivy’s question would determine exactly how much longer this conversation would last.
    “Section three,” I said.
    “Us too,” Fitz said, grinning.
    Ivy’s expression changed from impatient annoyance to one that was half-interested, half-wary. I was now someone who mattered, an academic competitor who would have a direct effect on her future. I wanted to reassure her that my only goal was to live in the fishbowl without being eaten by the cat but since saying something so revealing was out of the question, I settled on asking if they’d heard anything about our professors.
    “Ben Copeland teaches Sin and Sanction,” said Fitz. “He’s young. Overcompensates for it by being overly strict. Any perceived slight and you are on the outs for the whole semester. Darius Dorio teaches Council Procedure—”
    “A real performer,” Ivy cut in. “Turns every class into ashow.” That could be interesting, I thought, provided I stayed part of the audience.
    “Promises and Oathbreaking is Telford,” Fitz said, rolling his eyes.
    “Ah, yes,” said Ivy. “The professorial equivalent of
Dionaea muscipula
. He lures students into a false sense of security by repeating test questions every year. He even puts the questions
and the answers
on file in the library. But every now and then—and you never know when—he asks entirely new questions. So you have to study everything anyway or risk complete failure.”
    “For Evil Deeds, we’ve got Sarah Meginnis,” continued Fitz. Listening to the two of them was like listening to two simultaneously played dueling piano performances. My head bobbled between them, trying to keep pace.
    “Very dusty,” Ivy said, flipping her hair and taking a peek at the front of the line. There was only one more student in front of them.
    “She’s ancient and has been at St. Luck’s forever,” Fitz said. “Rumor has it she just went straight to teaching without any time in the field. She’s out of touch with real practice, but since evil deeds haven’t changed much since Azazel first defined them in the hundred days following Armageddon, she’s still teaching what we need to know.”
    I nodded, acting like some of this was old news and the rest was of no concern, but inside I was sweating. Forget about my concerns over training to become a Maegester. Studying to become an ordinary Hyrke Barrister was starting to sound near impossible too.
    “Who’d I leave out?” Fitz asked, stepping up to within sneezing distance of Lady Lozenge. He was next in line.
    “Erdman for Analysis and Application,” Ivy said. “We don’t know much about her, except she’s new. I did hear that A and A is a lot of case briefs, though, endless reading and a lot of