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He’s not that bad,” Amber said.
    Ben rolled his eyes. They had this argument at least once a week. Professor Miles Varick had a reputation for being acerbic, impatient, unsympathetic, and overall a merciless bastard. But he also had a reputation as a fantastic lecturer, from whom a great deal could be learned by a student willing to pay attention. Amber had found all of those things to be true. Professor Varick began his Byzantine History lecture at precisely 8:50 A.M., the scheduled class time, and he took his time, investing the stories of Byzantium with suspense and humor and a vibrancy that dusty books could rarely muster. When he finished his lecture, he would glance up, breaking the spell he had cast over the class, and the second hand would be ticking toward the final moments of the period.
    Varick’s Byzantine History was the one class Amber never minded waking up for.
    She drained the last of her coffee and dumped it the trash bin outside the women’s bathroom. Ben waited for her, then gestured for her to enter the classroom before him.
    “Go on. He likes you. Maybe he won’t notice me.”
    “I’m not sure he likes anyone,” Amber whispered. “But he likes people who take his classes seriously.”
    “How could you take them any other way?” Ben said.
    Smiling, Amber preceded him into the room. More than half the class had already arrived. Professor Varick perched on the edge of the desk at the front of the classroom, leafing through a thick leather-bound volume with ragged-edged pages like a priest searching for just the right prayer. The priestly analogy was one that popped up in Amber’s mind frequently. Something about Miles Varick’s lean shape and stern countenance brought her back to her Catholic school days. The man had haunted blue eyes and graying hair cropped close, likely so that he could pay as little attention to it as possible.
    As Amber and Ben found a pair of seats by the tall, drafty windows, bathed in the warm morning sunlight, Professor Varick glanced at the clock on the wall and then confirmed the time with a glance at his watch. Stragglers hurried through the door. Professor Varick set the leather book on the corner of the desk and picked up his lecture notebook. Some teachers used laptops to aid them during lectures, but Amber thought Professor Varick would be using paper notebooks for as long as he had students to teach.
    A Middle Eastern girl darted into the classroom—Amber thought her name was Priya, but the semester was only a couple of weeks old and she didn’t know everyone in the class yet. The girl went up to Professor Varick and muttered something, practically under her breath.
    Professor Varick gave her an irked look. “I’m not your father. Go if you need to. Class begins in”—he glanced at the clock again—“about a minute and a half.”
    For a second, Amber thought the girl would argue, but she seemed to think better of it and hustled from the room, making a beeline for the women’s bathroom down the hall. Professor Varick did not try to hide his disdain, though whether it was because the girl had bothered to ask permission to go to the bathroom or because she would now miss the beginning of his lecture, Amber didn’t know.
    He made his way to the lectern and opened his notebook, glancing casually at the clock. The second hand ticked away the last thirty seconds and then 8:50 rolled around.
    “Today,” Professor Varick began, “we’re going to discuss the strange dynamic of the relationship between the Eastern Roman Empire—the core of Byzantium—and the Huns, beginning with the ascent to the throne of Emperor Theodosius II in A.D. 408, at the age of seven. Theodosius II, also called ‘the Calligrapher,’ built upon the achievements of his predecessors in several ways you will want and need to remember, but in order to firmly lodge him into your brain, I will first tell you the story of how he paid Attila the Hun not to kick his ass.”
    A ripple