“Oh, no.” She shakes her head, then tucks a strand of pink hair behind her ear. “I was finishing a conversation. Not starting one. I’m down for running and weight training with you, but you have friends to talk about your sex life with. Remember? The ones I’m watching you actively avoid at every opportunity?”

Not going there.

“And we aren’t friends?” I question.

“We’re…” Her face scrunches. “Coconspirators with a vested interest in keeping each other alive.”

That only makes me smile bigger. “Oh, don’t go getting soft on me now.”

Her gaze narrows as she looks past me, toward the outer wall. “What in Dunne’s name would a scribe be doing in the quadrant at this hour?”

I startle at the sight of Jesinia waiting in one of the shaded alcoves, tucked away like she’s trying to hide. “Relax. She’s a friend.”

Imogen dishes out a heaping dose of side-eye. “You’re pretty much hiding from the second-years but befriending scribes?”

“I’m distancing myself so I don’t have to lie to them, and I’ve been friends with Jes— You know what? I don’t owe you an explanation. I’m going to see what my friend needs.” I increase my pace, but Imogen matches it. “Hi,” I sign to Jesinia as we near the alcove. This particular one has a tunnel that leads straight into the dormitory. “Everything all right?”

“I came to find you—” Her brow puckers under her hood as her gaze shifts to Imogen, who’s sizing her up like she would an opponent.

“I’m fine,” I tell Imogen, signing at the same time. “Jesinia isn’t going to try to kill me.”

Imogen tilts her head, her gaze dropping to the cream satchel Jesinia carries.

“I’m not going to try to kill her,” Jesinia signs, her brown eyes widening. “I wouldn’t even know how.”

“Violet knew how to kill just fine on a scribe’s education,” Imogen replies, her hands moving quickly.

Jesinia blinks.

I lift my brows at Imogen.

“Fine,” she replies, signing as she backs away. “But if she comes at you with a sharpened quill, don’t blame me.”

“Sorry about her,” I sign once Imogen turns her back to us.

“People are trying to kill you?” Jesinia’s brow knits.

“It’s Thursday.” I move into the alcove so my back isn’t to the courtyard. “I’m always happy to see you, but what can I help you with?” Scribe cadets almost never enter the Riders Quadrant unless they’re assisting Captain Fitzgibbons.

“Two things,” she signs as we both sit on the bench, then reaches into her satchel, pulls out a tome, and hands it to me. It’s a copy of The Gift of the First Six and looks to be hundreds of years old. “You said you wanted an early accounting of the first riders when you returned the other books,” she signs. “This is one of the earliest I could find that’s allowed to be removed from the Archives. Preparing for another debate?”

I set it on my lap and choose my words carefully. My gut tells me I can trust her, but after Dain, I’m not sure I can depend on my intuition, and knowing isn’t safe for her, anyway. “Studying. And thank you, but you didn’t have to bring it. I would have come to you.”

“I didn’t want you to have to wait for me to be on Archives duty, and you told me you run every morning…” She takes several deep breaths, which usually means she’s composing her thoughts. “And I hate to admit it, but I need help,” she signs before pulling a ragged tome out of the bag and handing it to me.

I take it to free up her hands, noting the worn edges and loose spine.

“I’m trying to translate this for an assignment, and I’m struggling with a couple of sentences. It’s in Old Lucerish, and from what I remember, it’s one of the dead languages you can read.” Her cheeks flush pink as she glances back over her shoulder at the mage-lit tunnel, as if another scribe might see us. “I’ll be in trouble if anyone knows I’m asking for help. Adepts shouldn’t ask.”

“I’m good at keeping secrets,” I sign, my face falling as I remember using the language to pass secret messages with Dain when we were kids.

“Thank you. I know almost every other language.” Her motions are sharp, and her mouth tenses.

“You know far more of them than I do.” We share a smile, and I flip open the tome to the bookmark, taking in the swirling strokes of ink that make up the logosyllabic language.

Jesinia points to a sentence. “I’m stuck there.”

I quickly read from the beginning of the paragraph to be sure I have it right, then sign the sentence she’s looking for, spelling out the last word—the name of an ancient king who lived a thousand years before Navarre existed.

“Thank you.” She writes the sentence down in the notebook she’s brought with her.

Ancient king. I flip to the first page of the book, and my shoulders sag. It bears a date from twenty-five years ago.

“It’s hand-copied from an original,” Jesinia signs. “About five years before the quadrant received the printing press.”

Right. Because nothing in the Archives is older than four hundred years except the scrolls from the Unification. Sweat cools on the back of my neck as I translate a few more sentences for her from various pages, surprised at how much I still remember after not practicing for a year, then hand the tome back when I finish the last sentence she has marked.

If I hurry, I can bathe the sweat off and still catch breakfast.

“We’re working on removing all the dead languages from the public section of the Archives and translating them for easier reading,” she signs with an excited smile, then puts her things away. “You should come by and see how much we’ve accomplished.”

“Riders aren’t allowed past the study table,” I remind her.

“I’d make an exception for you.” She grins. “The Archives are almost always empty on Sundays, especially with most third-years cycling home for break.”

A scream rends the air, and my head shoots up. Across the courtyard, a second-year from Third Wing is dragged from the academic building, between two older riders, followed by Professor Markham.

What in Amari’s name?

Jesinia pales and sinks farther into the shadows of the alcove as he’s hauled into the dormitory building, where the tunnels beneath lead across the canyon and into the main campus of Basgiath. “I think,” she signs, starting to breathe raggedly. “I think that’s my fault.”

“What?” I turn to face her fully.

“That rider requested a book yesterday, and I recorded the request.” She leans toward me, panic growing in her eyes. “I have to record the requests. It’s—”

“Regulation,” we both finish signing at the same time. I nod. “You didn’t do anything wrong. What was the book?”

She glances toward the doors where the rider disappeared. “I should go. Thank you.”

It’s only the fear in her eyes that keeps me from asking her again before she rushes off, leaving me staring at the tome in my lap, realizing how dangerous my “research project” really is.

“Wait for me!” Rhiannon calls out later that day, jogging up through the crowd of riders as we reach the steps beside the Gauntlet, where most of us are bottlenecked as we wait for our turn to climb up to the flight field.