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action caused Mama to wallop her upside the head. It had been worth it.
    The coffee pitcher was empty; time to resupply. She scooted backward. The men paid her no heed.
    Ingrid slipped out into the hallway where her father always stared her down.
    â€œPapa,” Ingrid whispered, offering his portrait a nod.
    From the time she was very young, her greeting had become part of her daily ritual in the auxiliary. Mama always brought her along for a day of cooking and cleaning; the employment had been the least the auxiliary could do for a widow of their own. Abram Carmichael’s aptitude had earned him the title of warden by age thirty and killed him by thirty-­five.
    Like the other dead men memorialized in portraiture, Papa’s gaze was rendered as cold and haughty. Thick black hair had a slight kink to it and spiked out over his ears. His skin had the perfect hue of caramel, his eyes narrowed and bold as if lined by kohl. Broad lips smiled as if he barely contained a secret.
    Ingrid’s face mirrored Papa’s but with long hair, while her body took after Mama’s curvaceous form. No matter how Ingrid pinned or lacquered her hair, it defied any attempt at containment. It wasn’t at all like Mama’s hair had been—­as bright and straight as stalks of wheat. Ingrid had always envied that hair.
    â€œGirl!”
    She turned toward the voice. One of the older adepts leaned from a classroom. White streaked his mustache, though his hair remained as black as slate.
    â€œWe need more kermanite. The classroom safe is out.”
    â€œI’ll tend to it, sir,” she said. She set down the pitcher. The adept granted her an abrupt nod and ducked back inside.
    Girl. As if she was permanently a child, not twenty-­five years old. “Heaven forbid you take care of anything yourself, or call me by my name after you’ve known me for a decade,” she muttered.
    Still, she knew which lesson the class was engaged in, and she hurried down the hall for the students’ sake. She rounded the corner and stopped cold.
    A stack of desks blocked the entrance to the basement. She huffed in annoyance. Someone chose a fine time to clean out storage. She could go outside and come in through the back of the building, but it would take twice as long, and likely three more adepts would stop her with other urgent requests.
    â€œIt’s supposed to be blocked for a while yet, Ingrid.” A deep baritone voice rang out behind her. An adept hobbled out of a side room. “Thornton is having the basement fumigated. Rats, again. What do you need?”
    â€œThe junior classroom ran out of kermanite.”
    The older man clicked his teeth. “Again? Those quantities should have been checked before the end of day yesterday. Come along. There are some smaller crystals in the senior room. No point in letting those young’uns suffer.”
    She followed him back up the hall and into an empty classroom. The seniors were sequestered in the library just up the hall as they prepared for the end of term; with tests so soon, all of the students were required to work half days on Sundays through the month. The fact that it was Easter didn’t grant them any reprieve.
    Ingrid feigned patience as he opened the safe and pulled out a small leather bag. He poured the contents into his palm, counting beneath his breath, and then trickled the crystals back into the pouch.
    â€œHere. I hope no one else comes up short in the next while. Everything else is downstairs.” He stooped over as he scribbled the transaction in a ledger.
    â€œThank you, sir.”
    He whisked her away with a motion of his hand. “Run along, girl.”
    She did. Her presence in the meeting would be missed by now, and Mr. Antonelli was sure to give her a gimlet eye as he gestured to an empty mug.
    Whimpers and moans welcomed her to the junior classroom. Nearest to the door, a dozen boys half sprawled over their desks. A blue