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During more quicksand lessons in The Language of Plants, my new magic couldn’t help but claw at the mud around me as soon as my head went under, churning it like a cauldron that made me sink faster and faster until the cypress roots wrapped around my waist and hoisted me up once more.

But the worst happened in our last class of the week, right before we were to meet Coen in the jungle: History with Mrs. Smetlar.

Down the stairs leading to her classroom in the basement, Mrs. Smetlar stood right by the door, breathing down our necks as we entered. Like always, every seat was assigned, every desk equipped with a single piece of blank paper and fountain pen.

“Hurry up!” she crowed. “Or do you not want to learn anything today?”

Jolting forward, I settled into my designated spot, crossed my arms, and tried not to make eye contact with any of the dead insects pinned to boards hanging on the walls. Or the stuffed animal heads. Or the new addition to the room: a fresh leopard skin rug with the head still attached, fangs bared in a perpetual snarl.

God of the Cosmos, how was this even allowed? Did the other Wild Whispering instructors know that one of their own was quite literally murdering the very wildlife we were sworn to protect and care for?

Mrs. Smetlar snapped the door shut before striding to the front of the classroom, her boots digging into the fur of the leopard skin rug.

“Thirty-seven,” she said. “That’s how many new arrivals ended up joining this sector after their Branding five years ago.”

Nobody spoke. I tried not to so much as move for fear she’d call me out.

“Thirty-one,” Mrs. Smetlar continued, pinning her hands behind her back. Her shoulders curved inward, hunching slightly, when she did so. “That’s how many joined this sector after their Branding four years ago.”

In the seat next to mine, Rodhi’s knee began to jiggle. Otherwise, the class didn’t even seem to be breathing as Mrs. Smetlar looked upon us with disgust.

“Three years ago, it was twenty-seven,” she said, and I was starting to understand where this was going. “Two years ago, it was eighteen, one year ago, it was twelve, and this year, it was none. Zero. No Wild Whisperers.”

The silence buzzed in my ears.

“Do you know why?” Mrs. Smetlar asked, leaning forward. “Does anyone know why our magic is gone?”

It was a rhetorical question, of course—she didn’t actually expect anyone to answer—but Rodhi goddamn Lockett just had to jab a hand in the air.

“It probably got a little tired,” he said seriously. “Decided to take a nap.”

Mrs. Smetlar’s jaw clenched so hard that I could have sworn I heard the faintest pop. Apparently deciding to ignore Rodhi, she said, “Because none of you are proving that you’re worthy of it.” She picked up a pile of papers on her desk and shook it violently. “You’ve only been back for one week, yet every single one of you already failed your first written test!”

I bit my lip, knowing that like all her other tests, she’d asked us questions she’d never taught us the answers to, as if her greatest wish in life was to see as many of us as possible fail our Final Tests and face exile in two years’ time.

Mrs. Smetlar’s mouth pulled tight, a smile lurking behind her sneer. “Now, I want you all to write that down. This is History in the making, after all!”

She gestured at the blank pieces of paper and pens on our desks, and we blinked at them. This time it was Pierson Kaddor who dared to speak out loud.

“You want us to write what down, Mrs. Smetlar?”

“Oh, how about something like ‘In the year 502 AF, the Wild Whispering magic died out because we were not worthy of it.’ And I think copying that down ten times would really help keep a good record for future Esholian historians.”

I bit down harder, hating her and her fabricated insults. But there was nothing I could do. Like me, the rest of the class got to work writing that line over and over, the only sound the scratching of dozens of pens on parchment.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Smetlar began to patrol up and down the rows of desks.

“What is this penmanship?” she barked at a boy in the front row. “Nobody will be able to read that. Start over! Ten more times!”

When she got to Cilia, she wrinkled her nose. “There’s mud in your hair, young lady. Are you trying to contaminate historical documents?”

Then she saw Gileon, and her mouth curved into a predatory smile. I tensed, watching them out of the corner of my eye with my pen hovering over my paper.

Not him, I prayed. But Mrs. Smetlar had already zeroed in on something I hadn’t even noticed: the rhinoceros beetle, perched on the edge of Gileon’s desk.

“And how many times,” she crooned, “have I told you to keep this wretched thing out of my classroom?”

“I’m sorry.” Gileon blinked at the insect, as if he hadn’t even realized Nuisance was there. Usually, the beetle waited for him outside during this class. “I’ll take him back out.” He made to stand up.