Milloria Sinclair hunched over her desk, carefully moving her pen over the paper. Sweat beaded on her chubby features as she drew a perfect circle. A couple of stringy curls of hair fell in front of her eyes. She absently pushed them out of the way and continued drawing. The rough, cheap paper grabbed at the nib of her dip pen as she drew, flicking tiny spots of ink across the page and her soft hands. She scowled at the mess on her drawing but pushed on.

  The voice of Miss Claybourne, Mistress of Comportment, droned in the background, saying something about the role of posture and how it reflected on a young lady's reputation.

  The Solinor Co-Educational Polytechnic Institute prided itself on its teachings on physics and engineering and the scientific disciplines, but young ladies were expected to focus on classes in comportment, elocution, and languages. Milloria was allowed to sit in on the men's classes, but was required to attend the ladies' classes.

  Milloria didn't care about comportment right now. She was nearly done with her drawing. She dipped her pen in her inkwell and began laying out a series of lines extending from the circle.

  More support, there. The structure would be prone to flexing, so the iron beam here would need reinforcement. She added some steel plates to her diagram, and where they would be bolted on.

  Her favorite moment was always when she had completed another diagram, and sat back to take in the whole. It was at that moment she'd know if her newest creation was successful, if it even made sense as a coherent machine.

  She was just putting the finishing touches on her support when a piercing pain stabbed into her backside. Milloria squawked and jerked upright, slapping a hand over her bottom. The movement knocked over her inkwell. Ebony lampblack ink poured across her diagram, instantly soaking the paper.

  "Miss Sinclair!" barked Miss Claybourne.

  Milloria frantically grabbed up the inkwell to stop the mess, but the damage had already been done. She looked down at her destroyed drawing with an anguished expression.

  "Miss Sinclair, I do not understand why you feel the need to be a disruption in my classroom." Miss Claybourne said. "I would think that of all the girls in this school, you would pay attention to comportment lessons!"

  The other girls in the class tittered. Milloria sank down in her seat, mortified.

  "Yes, Miss Claybourne. I'm sorry, Miss Claybourne."

  With a huff, the stuff Mistress of Comportment turned back to her lesson.

  Milloria rubbed her backside and looked over her shoulder. Lorenda Cavendish sat behind her to the right, in her lush dress and perfect blonde curls. She was wearing a smile far too smug to be innocent, carefully tucking a long straight hatpin back into her hair. Milloria scowled at her, but Lorenda didn't even look her direction. She theatrically fixed her attention on the teacher.

  Milloria moved her scowl back to the mess on her desk. She'd had a whole stack of blank paper on her desk, and it was all soaked. What's more, half her bottle of expensive lampblack ink was gone. Tears welled up in her eyes as she rubbed at the pain. She tried to pick up her papers, but the soaked sheets simply disintegrated.

  With tears standing in her eyes, she salvaged what she could, but all her notes and diagrams for the day were ruined, along with her stock of blank paper. She ended up quietly setting aside the mess and slumping in her seat with her lower lip out, staring at Miss Claybourne as she lectured.

  Milloria was held after class to clean up the mess on her desk. She threw away the whole wad of ruined papers with more force than was strictly necessary, but she made sure Miss Claybourne wasn't watching before she did it. The Mistress of Comportment did not approve at all of displays of temper.

  Milloria did what she could to get the ink off the desk, and ended up using the harsh cleaning supplies Miss Claybourne provided. She was able to get most of the ink off the surface, but she could already feel her hands drying out from the harsh soap.

  She left the class, rubbing her dry hands against each other. The horrible, papery sensation of her own skin was overwhelming to her. She stared at her hands as she walked, her mind turning over the problem.

  Wetting her hands wouldn't help. Water simply rolled off dry skin without making them feel better. There were oil-based lotions, but those almost felt worse than dry skin. Perhaps something that would help seal the skin's natural moisture? Milloria was accustomed to using beeswax on steel parts to keep moisture out and keep them free from rust. Perhaps some form of beeswax could keep moisture in as well, close to the skin. It would help if she combined it with something nourishing, like an oat extract, but how to combine the oat with the beeswax? If she developed some sort of double boiler to infuse--

  With a squawk, Milloria suddenly sprawled headlong. She landed hard in a puddle, splashing mud in every direction.

  She looked up to see the cruel smile of Lorenda Cavendish.

  "Watch out, you clumsy pig," Lorenda sneered, withdrawing her foot. "You nearly got mud on me." The group of three girls that always followed Lorenda giggled.

  Hot tears of shame spilled from Milloria as she struggled back to her feet. Her loose brown hair hung in her face as she considered the ruin of her school dress.

  "Lorenda, you tripped me!" Milloria wailed.

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  "I did no such thing. If you're too stupid to look where you're going, that's hardly my fault." She looked the plump, unhappy, girl. "Besides, the mud suits you. Don't pigs like mud? I wouldn't know, I'm not acquainted with pig farmers, unlike your family."

  Milloria reddened. "My father's a merchant, he doesn't raise pigs!"

  "Oh? He raised you, didn't he?" Lorenda's companions giggled again.

  "You're just... mean!" Milloria spat. "Why are you so mean?"

  Lorenda scoffed.

  "Mean? I'm hardly mean. Besides, even I was guilty of all these baseless accusations, is it mean to do what's right? The Polytechnic is a school for proper young ladies from good families. It's not a place for dirty, grubby, fat little commoners." Lorenda looked thoughtful for a moment, then continued in a condescending tone. "Let me put it in terms you'll understand. When a pig escapes from the pigpen, it goes to the garden and starts destroying the good things there. It's too stupid to even realize the damage it's doing. The farmer isn't mean when he drives it back where it belongs." Lorenda leaned forward and hissed her face. "And you don't belong here."

  Milloria sniffed.

  "I have just as much right to be here as you," she said, struggling not to burst into blubbering tears. "My father pays the tuition, same as yours."

  Milloria never saw the white-gloved hand that lashed out; she only heard the whipcrack of contact and felt the shock of pain as her head rocked back.

  "Don't you dare draw a comparison between your family and mine," Lorenda spat. "I am a Cavendish, one of the highest families of Arden. Don't you ever think that your family are more than mud-carriers, even if they managed to scrape together a tiny bit of money."

  Milloria held a hand to her face, sobbing now.

  "Someday," Milloria said through her tears, "somebody is going to treat you like you treat me."

  Lorenda shook her head, chuckling.

  "Oh, dear, stupid Milloria. That's simply not how this works. The sooner you go back where you belong, the happier we all will be. Come, girls." Lorenda twirled and glided away, followed by her retinue.

  Milloria stared at Lorenda's retreating back, her expression twisting. Her tears dried in the flames of rage that swept through her.

  "Someday," she said quietly. "I promise."

  Edvar Pembroke sat at his study desk in his dormitory room at the Polytechnic. He had a hand lodged in his thick walnut hair, nursing a slight headache from ale he'd had the previous evening. His other hand held the letter that had arrived from his mother that morning.

  "My Dearest Edvar," it read.

  "I hope you are well and in good spirits. Your father and I are well; the doctors have been through again and they say your father is as fit as a young man. The roses in the south garden are blooming nicely. Young Ethel was asking after you again, you should write her as you get the opportunity.

  "Your godfather Mortimer is well pleased with reports of your schooling. You know how he values a quality education. Your diligence and propriety are a proper reflection of our family. Be mindful and courteous in all your discourse.

  "Sincerely, Mother."

  Edvar's mouth twisted. He crumpled the letter and dropped it on the floor.

  "Doesn't matter," he muttered. A knock sounded at the door. Edvar took a moment to force relaxed smile across his face and lounged back in his chair.

  "Come," he said.

  Allister Ashworth poked his head in. He was boyishly handsome, with golden, curly hair and ice-chip blue eyes. He smiled, and dimples creased his face.

  "Edvar? Are you busy?"

  "Allister, my friend, one thing I never am is busy." He waved one hand around airily. "Busy is for merchants, peasants, and my father. What news?"

  "How did you know I had news?" Allister said, his eyes sparkling. He stepped fully into the room and sat on the edge on Edvar's narrow bed.

  "Allister, your face is as readable as the broadsheets. Don't ever play cards unless you find yourself needing to lose a lot of money very quickly."

  Allister laughed, his voice squeaking awkwardly.

  "Edvar you're a riot. No, I wanted to tell you. The post arrived today, and I got a letter. From Dorton."

  Edvar's easy smile stiffened for a brief moment.

  "Ah. A military commission?" he asked.

  Allister nodded happily, and his chest swelled with pride.

  "I'll be commissioned as a Cornet with the Eastern Expeditionary Force. The letter said that a young man with my background could expect to make Lieutenant within a year."

  "Ah, so 'background' is how they spell 'father's money' in the army."

  Allister took on a hurt expression. "I thought you'd be happy for me."

  "Oh, certainly, certainly," Edvar said, staring at the ceiling. "Going off on mad adventures in foreign lands, getting stabbed by a variety of unique and exciting aboriginal weapons, what's not to love?"

  "It's an honor to serve in army," Allister said, deflating slightly.

  "Well, you'll have no shortage of young ladies dropping their handkerchiefs for you. Between your looks and a lieutenant's uniform, you'll fairly have to climb over hills of hankies wherever you go. I assume you'll be leaving at the end of term?"

  Allister's nose turned up slightly. "Actually, I'll be leaving out in two weeks. They wanted to get me into training as quickly as possible."

  Edvar's face twisted, but quickly smoothed out again in an easy smile.

  "They must be having more trouble with those eastern magicians than the broadsheets are letting on," Edvar said.

  "Or perhaps they recognize talent," Allister retorted coolly.

  Edvar's eyes took on a pained look over his carefree smile.

  "Sorry, chap," he said. "I didn't mean to offend."

  "You do an awful lot of it for someone who's not trying."

  Edvar's smile drained away.

  "Sorry," he said again. "I didn't mean... it's just, the army... look you be careful, all right? Eastern Expeditionary is a difficult posting."

  "I'm sure I'm up to the challenge," Allister said stiffly.

  "You are. You are. I know you'll knock all those superstitious natives back on their heels."

  Slightly mollified, Allister shrugged. "It's a good career posting. Father says it could be a stepping-stone for me to follow him into a political career someday." He frowned. "Why don't you try for the military, Edvar? Pembroke's a fine family, it would be easy to get a posting. You'd make a wonderful officer, I bet."

  Edvar laughed. "Imagine me, an officer! The country would be in truly dire straits!"

  "Edvar, you must do something. You cannot simply be a student forever. Where is your ambition?"

  Edvar shrugged, gazing off into the distance.

  "Nothing appeals to me," he said. "I'm too stupid to become a professor, too lazy to become a merchant, too moral to become a politician. The commoners keep bleating about the idle aristocracy, I suppose it's up to me to provide that service for them."

  A brief smile shone from Allister's face as his natural good humor reasserted itself.

  "Good old Edvar. Mark my words, someday you'll find your ambition. You'll discover what you're meant to be."

  "A mistake, is what I am," Edvar said darkly. His smile popped back. "Just one of the Divine's little oopsies." He waved away that line of conversation. "Best of luck to you in the army, Allister. I hope--I hope you get everything you want out of it."

  "I'm sure I will!" he said. He stood and saluted crisply. "I'll see you again once I'm an officer!"

  Edvar sketched a lazy salute back.

  "Good luck, Allister."

  The sunny young man walked out of Edvar's room. Edvar sat up, brooding.

  The annoyances of the day had mounted. There was nothing for it but to engage in his little hobby. Every time, he promised he wouldn't do it again, but every time he knew it was a lie.

  Except this time. This time would be the last. He was sure of it.