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I had spent my whole life being poor around people with money, and I knew that language. This one was deeper.

“Don’t take it personally.” The voice came from across the table, almost startling me.

I hadn’t heard him sit down, which was unsettling enough to make me want to dislike him. The Wyndham boy from orientation had somehow silently folded himself onto the bench opposite me, as if breakfast at my abandoned end of the table had always been his plan.

The server was there before I could respond and I waited for him to leave before I would respond.

Up close, Wyndham was worse.

His dark hair was a little too long, his mouth was built for trouble and already aware of it, and his eyes were bright with the annoying confidence of someone used to rooms improving when he entered them. The sleeves of his robe and the shirt the men were supposed to wear underneath were shoved up despite the morning chill, showing both forearms inked with a crowded ledger of black marks. A house, a tree, a crown split down the middle, lines and symbols packed so tight they nearly touched.

I looked at his face for less time than he probably expected, then went back to my porridge. “I wasn’t.”

“Liar.”

My gaze lifted to his. I was almost surprised by the intensity of his blue stare.

He bit into an apple, grinning. “Kit Wyndham.”

“That supposed to mean something?” I raised an eyebrow at him.

His grin widened. “To most people, yes.”

“Rough morning for you, then.”

The laugh came out of him before he could make it pretty, one sharp surprised bark that turned heads three tables away. There it was, the real laugh under the charm, and I did not like that I had found it.

“Stars,” he said. “You really don’t know who I am.”

“I know you make fire under desks when you’re bored.”

“That’s one of my better qualities.”

“You have a list?”

“A tragic number of them.” He leaned forward. “Tell me one true thing about yourself, Billie Lane.”

“No.” The word was out of my mouth before I’d even thought about it.

“Fast. I respect that.”

I shook my head. “No, you don’t.”

“You’re right, I love it.” He stole a slice of apple from my plate, though he had an entire one in his hand. “People here trade in three currencies: blood, favors, and gossip.,” He held a finger up with each one. “True things are rarer. I’m trying to be generous.”

“By stealing my breakfast.”

“I never said I was generous with fruit.”

Kit was charming, I’d give him that, but it was a practiced kind of charm, one that told me he was used to getting what he wanted, or, at the very least, getting the recognition he was used to. He was going to be disappointed.

I watched as he followed movements that seemed almost scripted. Lean in, smile devilishly, offer the game, make the other person feel briefly chosen. It was a stage play and I was an unwilling participant.

Unfortunately, Kit was a very attractive actor.

It was almost enough to make me answer. Not the true thing, absolutely not, but the banter, the little door he had opened between us with firelight behind it. There was a dry line on my tongue, just waiting to be used, and I could feel exactly how it would land and how his face would light up when it did.

I also knew, bone-deep, how girls like me became stories at places like this. In fact, I think I’d read a book or two where it happened. The outsider, in my case me being a provisional first-gen, two days in, trading sparks with the popular bad boy, now played by Kit Wyndham, in the dining hall while half the room watched. And they were watching. If I gave in to it, then I would be a joke by lunch and a cautionary tale by supper.