An Envoy for the Lost

Chapter One

"Adriane!" a sharp hiss accompanied a painful jab in the back. Sweat was pouring profusely from my hands. Time was running out, and I couldn't remember the name of the current historical restoration councilmember of Asper. The blank line glared at me and I felt another jab. Could it be Clayton Huneke? Hugo Kardell? Nyarko Porcello? No, that couldn't be it, the last I heard, Porcello was dead.

My Professor, Creque, a retired French theologian cracked an eye open and checked his chronometer, "All right, if you're done, you can turn them in to the Exam Tray." Still sweating, I reviewed every historical restoration councilmembers record in alphabetical order. I scolded myself, reminding myself of the many times I'd reviewed this last night. Had Laure Quinn quit stabbing my with her stylus, I might have successfully found the answer with less strain.

"Adriane! What's number forty-nine?" she hissed again, her scent of artificial lavender creeping closer to me.

"I don't know," I whispered, losing track of my list. My hands started shaking, and I felt as if I were drowning in dead lavender. Internally, I screamed at myself to quit shaking, unless I wanted Professor Creque to send me to the med cabinet for my inhaler.

"Just tell me! I won't snitch," she whined, jabbing me again.

Painstakingly reordering my mental record, I tried to remember all of the different names and professions. Iafrate Krutsinger, retired, Vanacore Weider, retired, Hillock Catalfamo, dead, . . . Kohne Birrueta? Not dead?

Deciding last minute, that it had to be Birrueta, I wrote his name down under forty-nine. Laure was poking me at a much more frantic pace, as she heard the rustling of my pen and I turned around, about to tell her to bug off, when-

"Ms. Corsey! Is there a problem?" I looked up in horror, to see Prefesson Creque observing me, under bespectacled bushy eyebrows. My tongue grew heavy and my face stung, I quickly shook my head mutely. Getting up to turn in my exam, I could see Laure nonchalantly tipping her pen around, her eyes shaded. Returning to my desk, I was glad this was my last class of the day.

I tapped my fingers, concentrating on no particular melody. I had to clear my record with Creque, or else I'd never stop worrying about it until a few months later when I would have a breakdown about all the small things that bothered me.

As closing time was marked, I grabbed my satchel, heading for the exit with my eyes averted, when I noticed the professor motioning for me to come and talk to him, Laure in tow. Great. I was already preparing my apology monologue, in fact, it was on the tip of my tongue.

"You've been called to a meeting at the council house, your caretakers may come," Creque said, before I could get a word out, his face looking grave. What? Panicked, I racked my brain for anything, any offense, I could have made unconscientiously. Council house meetings could mean anything from a wonderful workforce promotion, to an ejection from the entire state of Perdita.

"Why? I didn't do anything wrong," Laure demanded, her ridiculously coiffed stature contorting to acclimate her disgusted mood. She looked at me, as if I should support her, but I would have cried if I'd said another word.

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say," Professor Creque continued, "but, tell me how it goes," he carefully planted the last statement, as if I didn't already know he was notorious for gossiping about students. He started shuffling his papers around, refusing to make eye contact, as if politely informing us the conversation was over.

My skin prickled as I felt two pairs of eyes on me, Laure's and Creque's. I shivered, then gathered my things. Walking outside, I felt a terrible sense of dread, still searching for some answer as to why this was happening. Under the poplar tree, Keenan Ahlborn was waiting, the oldest of old friends. His too small cashmere sweater that I had gotten him for his thirteenth birthday, the one that says "Drama Queen" on it, was crookedly fitted over his person.