Whatever reasons Elise had halfheartedly imagined might excuse her family for treating her as they had done now died away. Her sister Meliora Ellsworth was both frail and beautiful, like a doll too expensive to take down from a high shelf. Her pale hair hung in perfect waves, her eyes shone big and blue, and her pinkish skin rivaled porcelain in delicate clarity. There was a depth to the hollows of her eyes and cheekbones, however, as if she had recently been ill. Yet no illness could have eclipsed her flawless clothes, a sight that stabbed jealousy straight into Elise's heart. No unraveling cuffs or worn down heels for her, no, she had a fashionably flared skirt the color of bluebells, and shoes so new that they must have still pinched her toes.

This girl had a mother and father who cared for her. Elise had no one — she could not even count her friends or professors after finding that list of murder suspects. She pushed off towards the exit, intent on leaving Meliora behind.

"Elise."

That brought her up short. She circled awkwardly around in her wheelchair. Any chance of catching Marek had been lost, and she might as well face this latest obstacle before it came around to bother her again. Turning her face up — very far up, the other girl was a bit taller than most — Elise simply waited.

"Aren't you going to say hello?" Meliora asked.

That was rich coming from her. Elise took several breaths to calm herself, each one coming in shakier than the last had. Fine, if she couldn't be calm, she could be angry. She drew on the deep reservoir of that anger, letting it seep into every part of her body and mind until she felt far away from herself. It was another girl who spoke in her voice. "I would have tried to be pleasant if you had tried to see me in the clinic."

Meliora took half a step back, as if she had been shoved. She gathered herself, somehow managing to look injured in the process. "You healed yourself, didn't you?" she said in tone that attempted coolness and came out only bitter. "You always get out of the scrapes you get into."

"I wouldn't call an attempted murder a 'scrape,' but I suppose that's not the only way we're different."

Seeing Meliora flinch brought Elise joy. Shame followed. Was this how she always felt when speaking with her sister? It didn't seem right. But the memory of Marek being shoved into a wall flashed in her mind again like a siren, reminding her of what else hadn't been right. He had fallen, yet his face had been hard with loathing. He had changed since then. The other day at the breakfast table, he hadn't stared down at the floor and waited for the harassment from Adesso or Romilly to end. He had parried with words and venom.

Maybe Elise had gone against her natural inclinations to defend herself, too, when she had been younger. That would be different now. "May I ask why you've decided to talk with me?" Elise said.

"Father asked me to." Meliora stuck her nose into the air. "He's concerned about keeping up appearances."

That remark had obviously been intended to cut, and it did. Elise cut right back. "Yes, I can see that he's concerned about a lot of things that have nothing to do with me."

Meliora's mouth fell open a little, her wide eyes growing even wider. She had not expected to hear anything of the sort, which meant that the Elise of the past really had not defended herself much to this girl at all. A disappointment, but one that wouldn't continue.

"If you don't have anything else to say, I have better things to do than sit here," Elise said. She waited a moment; when nothing more was said, she left at a slow pace that belied her inner turmoil. A guilty giddiness churned under her rib cage, shot through with disbelief. She had held her own without stammering or looking away.

Elise rode that elation all the way through the double doors of the Reading Room. Someone called her name as she reached the corridor. Her hands worked fast on the wheels of her chair, and she flew away. Her name sounded again. She took a hard turn down a side corridor, then another, then another still, not stopping until the voice behind her had faded to a senseless and distant buzz. She drew to the nearest wall, placing her forehead against its cold, bare stone. The right thing, she had done the right thing.

When her heart stopped pounding, she turned aside to examine her surroundings. This corridor had a cramped medieval look, which made a certain sort of sense. Marek had mentioned that the Manor was ancient when Lord Rambling had bought it, so it could have started out as some dreary castle. Either that, or the building had decided to change its look to something more dramatic.

A voice pierced the quiet. Not the one from before, but a male voice. Close, only a corridor or two away. A second voice joined the first, this one clipped, angrier. Two men were having an argument.

Alarm snaked down her back as if painted there by an icy fingertip. Nothing good came of being too curious. Just look at what happened to her after asking questions about Charlotte's death. Extraordinaries could do anything with their powers, including punish eavesdroppers.

The voices grew louder. Wait, was that —

"Go to hell, Marek!"

Romilly. Hard to forget such a superior, snarling tone after hearing it just yesterday.

Marek replied — his gravelly voice also unmistakable — but his exact words were lost. Elise moved forward as slowly as she could manage. The argument grew clearer as she drew closer to the end of her narrow corridor. Marek and Romilly weren't alone.

"Don't you have anything more worthwhile than harassing your betters?" another boy said, whose languorous voice eluded her. He could have been anyone. "There must be some professor who needs you to slobber over him."

Laughter erupted. None of it was Marek's. Just how many people were there? And were they standing in the large corridor crossing hers, or one next to it?

"Sorry, Santiago," Marek said, "but I'd hate to take over your favorite pastime."

No one laughed now.

"You —" Santiago began.

"Don't," Romilly said.

Elise reached what had looked like an alcove at a distance. It was a gap in the wall between this corridor and the next, one disguised by a tattered tapestry that hung straight down from the ceiling. The moth holes in it afforded her a good view of things next door. Two girls and four boys, Hall Sevens all, stood in a circle around Marek and Romilly. Adesso was one of them, doing her best impression of a harlot — where could anyone buy skirts that short? And her blouse, God, she was nearly spilling out of it. As for the other spectators, they had no names to their faces. A few of them looked amused, but most had expressions that ranged from distaste to fury.

Marek had his hands in the pockets of his tan slacks; paired with his wild purple and maroon checked sport coat, it looked as if he were playing host at an impromptu lunch party. "Now that I have your undivided attention," he said, "I'll repeat myself again for those who don't listen." He leveled his slouching shoulders, straightened his back. "This isn't a debate. An Underseer should know better than to let his girl flout the rules, Romilly." He barely turned his head in Adesso's direction. Lamplight shivered on his glasses. "And you. Cover up at least until you get outside the Manor. Besides dress codes, we also have ones for health and morals."

Romilly lunged for Marek, fist raised. Ice erupted from his hand. He stopped inches from plunging an icicle into Marek. His nostrils flared like a bull's. "I could end you." He jabbed his hand forward, jamming the icicle against Marek's throat. "This is what you're worth — as little effort as possible."

Crude insults were no excuse for threatening a life. This was bad. Elise had to find someone. A professor — no, Gerver, he was Chief of Security. But even if she could remember where Gerver's office was, he might not be there. And it was too far away.

What could she do? God, what could she possibly do?

Something. Whatever it was, it didn't matter. She pressed further into the dusty tapestry. Muscles tensed in her arm, preparing to hurl her chair into the other corridor.

Then Marek took a step, driving the ice deeper into his skin. The grin that cracked his face was bright and wide. Too wide. "Do it," he said, taking off his glasses. He tucked them into the breast pocket of his sport coat. "Go on."

Romilly's hand wavered. He didn't drop it, though. "You're insane."

"Me? I'm compos mentis." Marek took another step, and so did Romilly. "You? You're nuts." He gestured at everyone. "I mean, all your friends are standing around as you threaten my precious life." He cocked his head. "Well, I suppose Santiago isn't your friend, or Perkins either" — the dreaded ee-ther again — "but the point stands. You want to kill me with an audience watching, and that's not the sort of thing that a sane man does."

"Shut up."

"Open my throat and I will." Marek lowered his arm. He took another step, which Romilly once more matched. "But what's keeping you from it?"

Step for step.

"Could it be that you're wondering what might happen if you fail?"

Step for step.

"Or what will happen if you succeed?"

Step for step.

"Or are you just afraid it won't work?"

A final step. The ice pressed so deeply into his neck that it looked like he had a hole in it. He showed none of the pain he must have felt, but Romilly's hand had never stopped shaking. "Even if you do kill me," Marek said, "you won't shake off my murder that easy."

Romilly lowered his hand, and the ice shattered. It hit the floor with a glassy crash. "If I kill you, I'll do it so I don't stain any floors with Addy blood."

Now Marek gave a thin, brief smile not at all like the grin he had worn. No warmth or mockery of it, only the flashing snarl a wolf gave before snapping at another one. "How considerate," he said. "One demerit for attacking the Lead Underseer ... as expected."

Rage mottled Romilly's handsome face. He sputtered, "You — you —"

"I — I — I certainly hope you'll learn from this mistake, unlike all your others." Marek's other hand left his remaining pocket, heading straight for his throat. He rubbed the spot where the icicle had jabbed him. "But sadly, I think the best part of you ran down your mother's thighs."

Romilly's arm lashed up. Ice erupted from his hand again.

Marek batted it into crystalline dust with the back of a hand. He took off his coat, then tossed it aside in the arms of a nearby statue. "Is that the best you have?" he said mildly, rolling up his shirt sleeves.

"I don't need to use my best," Romilly said. He, too, took off his jacket, and pitched it onto the floor. With that cast aside, it was easy to see how much bigger than Marek he was. Not just taller, but wider. He looked as if he could pick Marek up and break him in half with one hand.

"That's not fair." Marek flicked his tie over his shoulder. "You're taking my lines."

Romilly undid his tie, then yanked it over his head. It dropped to the floor like a snake. "You're all talk."

"That's not what Mrs. Romilly tells me."

As insults went, it wasn't original, but hate darkened Romilly's face all the same. He no longer looked handsome. "Mention my mother again, and you'll regret it."

Marek's eyes shone as if someone had given him a long awaited Christmas present. "Do you know she has a birthmark?" he said, his voice soft and slow. "It's about as big as my thumb and sits right above her big, round —"

Ice flew at his head. He darted aside, laughing with surprise and delight.

Two of the bigger Hall Seven boys started forward, but the two others motioned for them to stay back. Adesso and her friend stood by with smug expressions. None of them were going to stop this. No, none of them wanted to stop this. Elise couldn't, not on her own. Her power could only help her, not anyone else. Worse, it didn't keep her from getting injured. She was next to useless. All she could do was watch.

Romilly broke forward, shooting icicles from a hazy mist swirling around the palms of both his hands.

Marek slapped the ice aside. Loose hair fell across his forehead, the only sign of his exertion. "I don't know why you're so upset," he said. "It's obvious by Mommy's eagerness that Daddy isn't doing a good job of things in the Romilly household, and I'm a man of charity."

The bait worked. Romilly lunged at Marek. His icicles degenerated into jagged chunks of ice. He lobbed them hard and fast. Marek destroyed them just as quickly. Exploded ice swirled in the air like snow. The circle of students scurried back from the fight, most of them brushing flakes from their clothes.

"Kill him!" Adesso shrieked. "Let him have it, Calix. Just murder him."

He tried. Handful after handful of ice streaked out of his hands.

Marek punched them into white dust. The snowstorm soon swallowed him whole. Romilly grinned, then started throwing even harder. Ice pelted the place where Marek had last stood. Powdered ice ceased thickening the air, as if Marek had given up the fight. Or been knocked out of it. Elise leaned so far forward in her wheelchair that another inch would mean standing. She pulled the tapestry aside for a better look. Had Marek finally gone down?

That must have been Romilly's thought, too, because he stopped throwing. He squinted into the settling snowfall.

A wall of ice surged out of the cloud, with Marek behind it. Fresh ice pelted the shield. The surface cracked. It wouldn't last, it just wouldn't, not before Marek got to Romilly. Another chunk of ice crashed straight through the shield. Marek didn't blink when it sailed inches from his nose. He stopped charging, but the ice shield didn't. One shove of his shoulder shattered it into big pieces. They burst in one direction.

Romilly scrambled aside, but it was too late. A shard hit him slammed into his gut so hard that his shoes left the floor. He just managed to regain his balance when he landed.

Falling might have saved him from what came next. Marek dashed forward. His leg swung out and up, straight into Romilly's groin. The hissing inhales from the male spectators almost drowned out Adesso's strangled shriek. Marek watched the larger boy crash down with satisfaction.

"Y-you're a cheat," Romilly croaked. He fought to pull himself away from Marek, inching along the floor like a worm. "A damned cheat ... with dirty Ord tricks."

Marek plucked a sharp splinter of ice from the floor. He twisted it this way and that, as if he had never before encountered such a thing. "I'm not a cheat," he said, dropping down to his haunches. "I just know one important thing: might or mind, power is all the same." He thrust the lethal splinter under Romilly's chin, pressing ice to throat. "It separates the weak from the strong."

Romilly had stilled so much that he had to be holding his breath.

"Scared?" Marek said. "Because if you aren't, well ..."

"— you should be," Romilly said. "I could kill you right here, and no one would care."

His friends stood by, watching. So did other students, a mix of sophomores and freshmen, with some upperclassmen thrown in. Elise had been caught in the rush of them, unable to free herself when Calix Romilly and his friends had started attacking another boy. The same boy who had read that lovely poem earlier in the day.

Marek looked defiant even bloody and beaten. "I'm not scared," he said, blood dribbled from his split lip. He swayed where he stood, clutching one arm that hung at a funny angle. "But you are." He stepped forward, his shoes crunching down on his already broken eyeglasses. "That's why you hit me when my back was turned — but I guess cowards can't help what they are."

Laughs pattered through the crowd. Romilly kicked out. His strike landed on the outside of Marek's knee, and the shorter boy tumbled down, hitting the floor with a great whoosh of air escaping him.

Next to Elise, a girl wearing about a gallon of sickly floral perfume gave a cry and started forward. A boy that shared her dark blue eyes grabbed her by the arm, shaking his head. "Don't, Rosie," he said. "You can't get any more demerits, not for someone else's fight."

Light red hair fell into Rosie's face as she lowered her head, sniffling. Still, the girl had been brave to try. That was more than Elise could say for herself. She couldn't do anything except tremble and watch what happened next. That made her as much of a coward as Romilly was.

Crouching down, Romilly made a show of twirling the icicle he held in his hand. "Getting into high level classes doesn't change what you are," he said. "You seem to have forgotten it, so let me remind you." He jabbed the ice at Marek's throat. "You're weak, and I'm strong." He pressed the ice farther down. "That is what happens when one of us is Addy trash and the other is a real Extraordinary."

Marek coughed, spraying blood. Romilly started back with disgust, dropping the icicle. It shattered on the floor close to Marek's head. Romilly laughed at the other boy's flinch, then got up to join his friends. They weaved through the dispersing mob. Like the upperclassmen earlier in the day, he didn't look back to see the hatred seething in Marek's eyes.

Elise saw it, though, and shivered.

"Ah, you are afraid," Marek said, snapping her attention to the present. He pressed the shard against Romilly's throat, just as the same had been done to him. "I don't blame you. I'd be scared, too, knowing some worthless Addy was wondering if ice could punch through my flesh like a knife."

The other students started forward, but stopped when he stood. He released the shard of ice. It landed right next to Romilly's face, bursting into a hundred white pebbles. Romilly flinched, but Marek didn't laugh.

Done, Marek went to the statue, retrieving his lurid sport coat. He started putting himself in order. Running a hand through his hair, he added one more thing. "It's three demerits, now," he said. "I'll tell your mother that tonight."

Romilly raised a hand, one steaming with the beginnings of another icicle. Two of his friends stepped between him and Marek, saying enough was enough. The fight finished just like that.

Elise leaned back into her wheelchair, no longer needing to see more. Relief and anger and fear stormed inside her so strongly that her stomach ached with it. Marek had won against a coward and a bully, but he had also proved himself perfectly capable of harming another person. This might have not been the only time, either. Her former self must have had a good reason to make him a suspect in Charlotte's death.

"Ellsworth?"

She jerked, eyes widening. No, this couldn't be happening. But it was, because the footfalls nearing her proved that. She lifted her head so she could meet the unnatural gaze of Tarian Marek.