Staring into the middle distance, you say, "I don't see why colleges should be in conflict. Isn't it a distraction from what's important?"
Delacroix sighs. "Exactly," they say. "It's frivolous—and, besides, the prizes are never any good."
"The prize," Lady Renaldt says, "will be announced at the dinner by Lord Haberlin."
She glances at the grandfather clock behind her. Almost as soon as she does so, it gently chimes.
"To your next class," she says. "., please help me put the room away."
The rest of the students file out. As he goes, Max mouths "you're in trouble" with an ominous expression. Once the door closes, Lady Renaldt gestures for you to stand beside her desk.
"Gallatin students are renowned for the well-roundedness of their education," she says.
Lady Renaldt's eyes briefly crinkle with her smile.
She shuffles through the sheaf of papers on the desk; you notice a couple of familiar-looking essays and school reports bearing your name.
"The teachers at Rochat's Academy were good enough to provide us with samples of your previous work," she says. "And although in many areas you excelled, you were notably poor when maintaining resolve under pressure. This will not do at all, especially with the Crème de la Crème competition on the horizon, and the…unfortunate situation with your parents puts you in a precarious position. And so you will be undertaking extra lessons with Miss Gonzalez. That young lady is in possession of real grit and vigor, and I trust you will learn from her."
Lady Renaldt gives you a humoring look. "Keep that fire for your tutoring, and you'll do fine," she says. "Part of learning at Gallatin is understanding how to manage one's time. This will stand you in good stead for your future endeavors."
The bell rings for the end of break, and she gestures to the door.
"I look forward to hearing about your progress from Miss Gonzalez. You may go."
As you leave, Karson bumps straight into you. With a startled exclamation, he stumbles backward. "Sorry, Master .," he mutters. "I didn't see you there."
He is wearing gardening gloves and heavy boots caked with soil, and glances down self-consciously where he's left footprints. A smudge of dirt is streaked across his pale forehead, and his black hair is straggling free from its long braids.