“Wait, I do have a question,” Liv said. She’d already brought up that she was Corvan Danavis’s daughter. The only way she could be more interesting to him—and make him suspect more that she was a spy—was by volunteering that she was from Rekton and knew Kip.

And the only way out was to go much, much further. Dear Orholam, please…

“Yes, Liv,” Gavin said. But he didn’t look at her. Face expressionless, he was staring hard at Ana. He glanced down at her propped-up cleavage then back to her eyes and shook his head just a fraction. Yes, I see. No, I’m not amused.

Ana blanched. Her eyes dropped, she sat up and shifted in her chair to pull her skirt down. Thank Orholam Liv was in the back row, because she couldn’t suppress her grin, despite everything.

“Liv?” Gavin asked, turning those prismatic eyes on her. Entrancing.

She cleared her throat. “I was wondering if you could talk to us about uses of yellow/superviolet bichromacy.”

“Why?” Gavin asked.

Liv froze. Her prayer was answered. A chance.

Magister Goldthorn interjected. “How about we talk about superviolet/blue bichromacy instead? It’s far more common. Three of my disciples are bichromes. Ana here is nearly a polychrome.”

Gavin ignored her.

Liv hadn’t thought this moment would ever come. She’d been trapped so long in this class, with these girls. In one more year, she’d be finished. In fact, she’d mastered enough drafting that she could take the final examination right now and pass easily. She hadn’t because there was nothing good waiting for her when she finished. A terrible position decoding official, non-secret communications for the Ruthgari noble who held her contract. She wouldn’t even be trusted with secret communications. No matter that she’d been a babe in arms during the war and felt no loyalty to the rebels, she was Tyrean. It was enough to curse her in the Chromeria’s eyes.

Each of the Seven Satrapies was responsible for the tuition of its own students. It was an investment every satrapy gladly made because drafters were so vital to every part of their economies, their armies, their construction, their communications, their agriculture. But Tyrea had nothing. The corrupt foreign governors of Garriston sent a pittance every year. Those students who came from Tyrea mostly had to pay their own way. The Danavises’ wealth had been stolen during the war, so Liv had needed to pledge her services to a Ruthgari patron just to stay at the Chromeria.

If Liv were from any other satrapy, her ambassador would have forced her patron to pay for bichrome training for her or surrender her contract. But there was no Tyrean ambassador anymore. There was an official bursar’s purse for “hardship” cases like hers, but it had long ago become a slush fund for bureaucrats to reward their favorites. Tyrea had no voice, no place.

“Liv asked because she’s a yellow/superviolet bichrome,” Vena said.

Gavin turned and looked at her. Vena was an artist and dressed like one. Boyishly short hair, artfully disheveled, lots of jewelry, and clothing she’d tailored for herself. Half the time you couldn’t even tell what country’s style she was borrowing from, if any. But despite not being pretty, she was always striking and—in Liv’s opinion anyway—looked great. Today, Vena wore a flowing dress of her own invention, with silver embroidery at the hem reminiscent of the Tree People’s zoomorphic designs. The designs in the visible spectrum were echoed cleverly in the superviolet.

“What a marvelous young woman you are,” Gavin said to Vena. “And a good friend. I love your dress.” As Vena blushed crimson, Gavin turned to Liv. “Is this true?”

“No, it’s not,” Magister Goldthorn said. “Liv’s Threshing was inconclusive, and since then she’s shown no further abilities.”

Liv pulled out the broken yellow spectacles—really only a monocle—that she’d bought secretly two years before. She held it up, squinted through one eye, and stared at the white stone of the Prism’s Tower. In a moment, yellow luxin filled her cupped hands.

It sloshed like water. Yellow luxin’s natural state was liquid. It was the most unstable of any luxin, not just sensitive to light but also to motion. At its best, it could be used mainly for two things: if held with will in liquid form, it made great torches. Or, in a thin, sealed sheet, it would slowly feed light to other luxins, keeping them fresh the same way that lanolin and beeswax rejuvenated leather.

Liv threw the cupped liquid aside. It didn’t even make it to the ground, instead flashboiling in midair into pure yellow light.

Magister Goldthorn spluttered, “This is outrageous! You are forbidden to draft—”

“You are forbidden,” Gavin interrupted her, “to squander the gifts Orholam has given you. You’re Tyrean, Aliviana?”

Magister Goldthorn stopped cold. One did not interrupt the Prism himself, not twice.

“Yes,” Liv said. “Little town not far from Sundered Rock, actually. Rekton.”

His eyes seemed to flash for a second, but it might have been Liv’s imagination, because he said, “How long before you pulled the threshing rope?”

“Two minutes five seconds,” she said. It was considered a very long time.

He looked hard at her. Then his expression softened. “As stubborn as your father, I see. I barely made it past one. Well done. So… superviolet and yellow. Watch this.” He held out both of his hands.

Every girl’s pupils tightened to tiny apertures. Superviolet luxin was invisible to normal sight. Even a woman who could draft superviolet wouldn’t see it unless she was looking for it. “Your normal lessons have covered—doubtless to the point of your nausea—crafting missives with superviolet luxin.”

Had they ever. Its invisibility was why superviolet drafters were used for communications. But on top of that, every satrapy was also looking into ciphers and methods of stacking, twisting, and obfuscating the superviolet-written messages, locking the messages into fragile loops that would be broken by any but someone who knew the exact method to open and read them. Fun, for a while. But they’d passed the fun place a long long time ago.

“You know what superviolet is great for?” Gavin asked. “Tripping people.” Every girl in the class grinned guiltily. All had done that at one time or another. “No, seriously. The pranks are where you learn to apply your color in ways no one else has thought of. You have to be a little bad to make history. Sealed superviolet isn’t as strong as blue or green, but it weighs almost nothing, and for Orholam’s sake, it’s invisible!” Gavin drafted a hollow superviolet egg the size of his hand. He winced for an instant, as if something was paining him. “The trick with yellow, Liv, is to understand how it releases its power. So, into the middle of this egg, draft liquid yellow.” He did. “The important bit is to leave absolutely no air inside the container. It has to be solid.” He closed it while looking at the girls, not paying attention. He’d just left an air bubble in the egg. He hadn’t noticed.

“If it’s solid, totally airtight, then even if you shake it—”

Liv raised her hand, opened her mouth, but she was too slow.

Gavin shook the egg. It exploded with a blinding flash.

Everyone hit the ground.