Page 12 of Winterveil

Generously, Mikhail waited outside their shared room while Julian undressed and put on his uniform. The navy pants, navy blazer, and white button-down were all well-made and well-fitted. Allowing himself a moment of vanity, Julian checked his reflection in the mirror on the back of his wardrobe.

His blond hair was more untidy than he would’ve liked, thanks to his awkward sleeping position on the bus, and he’d lost a noticeable amount of weight in the past month. There were dark circles under his eyes, though his glasses mostly obscured them. Overall, he looked like a greatly reduced version of Julian Joyce-Young III—downtrodden and weary. He hated it.

He hated the uniform more. Now that he had it on, he was one of them. A student, a prisoner, insignificant, sidelined, and trapped. He wasn’t sure which was worse: anonymity or infamy. At least the guard had let him keep his watch.

Julian drew in a breath to steel himself and joined Mikhail in the corridor. His roommate was leaning against the wall, absorbed in his tablet. Before he closed hurriedly out of the window, his cheeks pinking, Julian saw that he had been messaging someone named Jane Lin.

“Ready?” Mikhail asked, flush still lingering.

Julian nodded.

Mikhail led him through the corridor, out of the boys’ dormitory and back into the courtyard. It was brighter now, sunlight scattering the mist, and almost too warm. Julian itched under his blazer. Mikhail pointed out the girls’ dormitory, across the lawn, and the amphitheater to the south, where combat training took place. Then he guided him back to the main building, which contained the classrooms and administrative offices.

As they walked, Mikhail maintained a steady stream of mostly one-sided conversation.

“Dr. Iver draws up every student’s schedule by hand. Yours has already been uploaded to your tablet; I’ll show you how to check it later. There are three main disciplines: Strategy and Statecraft, Espionage and Tradecraft, and Tactical Combat. Technology is kind of an unofficial subdiscipline, but that’s what I focus on. . . .”

Julian realized that he had failed to ask Mikhail the most important question. Cutting him off, he blurted, “So what did you do to end up here?”

“Oh,” said Mikhail. “I hacked into B of A’s servers. I was bored one day and it seemed like fun. Don’t feel bad about not knowing. It only made some of the New Jersey local papers.”

“I see.”

“Mind if I ask you something?” Mikhail stopped walking.

“Sure,” replied Julian, feeling magnanimous.

“Did you watch the SNL sketch they did about you?”

The memory rose up against his will. Not of the skit itself, which Julian would have found excruciatingly humorless even if he hadn’t been the subject. But he had spent hours scrolling through the comments underneath the video of it that had been uploaded online. He hadn’t been able to resist responding to some of them.

@sejunp2014: love this guy, he’s the total package. famous, the worst personality in existence, and definitely guilty of multiple federal crimes.

@jjy-iii: you can kiss my ass.

Another reason Julian was grateful that his case hadn’t gone to trial. He had horrific visions of his comments being compiled by the prosecution and projected on a screen before the jury.

“So you also found a way to hack the academy firewalls,” Julian said.

“Yeah, well.” Mikhail lifted a shoulder. “Sometimes I get bored here, too.”

They continued on to the main building in silence, passing briefly beneath the shadow of the sweeping elm trees that lined the path. Occasionally they’d cross a group of students and Mikhail would wave or nod, but he didn’t stop to talk or to introduce Julian. His roommate had definitely picked up on the mood.

“The second floor is for Statecraft and Strategy,” Mikhail said as they climbed the stairs. “I figured I’d show you first. This is where most of your classes will be.”

They walked by a dozen classrooms, groups of no more than a dozen students assembled in each one. What Julian could glimpse through the windows was surprisingly mundane: desks, chalkboards, projector machines. Nothing that would have seemed out of place at Exeter, or Harvard. He was almost disappointed.

Mikhail took him inside one of the reading rooms. It was small and stuffy, crowded with plush armchairs and couches. The enormous fireplace was unlit but still grand, and the shelves were lined with leather-bound books. When Julian inhaled, he smelled the faintest remnants of smoke, spilled ink, and old paper.

The room seemed like a relic of an earlier time, perhaps left intact while the rest of the academy underwent modernizing renovations. There were several alcoves that provided a modicum of privacy, shadowy and angled away from the door. Julian made note of them.

As they exited back into the corridor, Mikhail said, “Do you want to see the practice room?”

“The practice room?”

“For simulations,” said Mikhail. “They’re the cornerstone of the Strategy discipline. Students face off against each other, playing as different states or factions in various scenarios that the professors cook up. It’s one of the main ways that grades are determined and progress is evaluated. And winners always advance up the ranking board.”

“Ranking board?” Julian echoed keenly.