Page 160 of Gravehouse

Below us, a dozen young Dubois stand in two rows across the frost-bitten lawn. They range from fourteen to eighteen. Every one of them wears black training clothes and the rigid posture the old house carved into its children. Ivy has spent two years teaching them how to loosen their shoulders, breathe through panic, and keep their hands from becoming weapons every time someone raises their voice.

It’s going well.

One boy drops his gaze when Ivy approaches. She hooks two fingers beneath his chin and lifts his face toward hers.

“Look at me when you’re afraid.”

His throat works. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Again.”

“I look at you when I’m afraid.”

“Good. Fear gives you information. It doesn’t get to make your decisions.”

She moves between them, barefoot in the thin grass, her long dark hair braided over one shoulder. Sunlight falls across her skin, bringing out the green in her eyes. She wears a black tank top and tight black pants tucked into combat boots, with her sheath clipped around her thigh.

She points toward the stone table in the center of the courtyard.

“Book One.”

The children answer together.

“Psychological Warfare.”

“Book Two.”

“Corps de Violence.”

“Book Three.”

“Advanced Manipulation.”

“Book Four.”

“Emergency Protocols for Emotional Contamination.”

Ivy nods once.

“Regulation comes before every book. If you lose control of your body, someone else gets to use it. If you lose control of your thoughts, they don’t even need to touch you.”

The kids barely blink.

Sinead glances at me. “Terrifying.”

I shrug. “Foreplay.”

Ivy turns toward the greenhouse she’s brought back to life, and Camille shuffles out of the shade at the end of a leash.

At the sight of the leash, I push off the pillar and head down the steps, stopping at the bottom when Ivy fists Camille’s hair.

Camille’s eyes find mine but no one is home. The shadows from the greenhouse harden her features, and her hair is about two years overdue for a cut. This is Ivy’s first time bringing her aboveground.

“Everyone say hi, Camille!” Ivy sing-songs.

The students stare. They all know who Camille is because she tutored them under Aléia, Emeric, and Alderic.

Ivy’s grip tightens, and Camille’s head jerks back, her throat exposed. My pulse stays even, unbothered.