“On this momentous day, we will continue the process of abolishing the laws that have divided our people for centuries. The students of this school—and schools across our nation—will no longer look upon one another as vendors, servants, counsel, or outcasts, but instead as classmates.” I raised my fist in the air. “This is my pledge to you.”

For a moment there was silence, and I wondered if I should say something more, if it wasn’t enough of a statement. My heart replaced the words in my throat, choking me with uncertainty and regret.

Then a rumble went up, moving through the crowd with a life of its own, as cheers and shouts rose to a thunderous roar. Colorful bits of torn paper were thrown, tossed high into the air, and looked very much like feathers as they were carried on the breeze. My heart soared with them, those tiny scraps, and I was certain my skin glowed brighter and burned hotter as I stood there, watching it all.

As the cries died down, the door to the vehicle opened on the street below, releasing the first of the children who’d been transported for their first day at the Academy. That was when the cries of opposition began.

Almost louder, it seemed, than the cheers of hope. And they came in every flavor of language: Termani, Parshon, Englaise.

“Go back to your own schools. . . .”

“Servants don’t belong here. . . .”

“You’re not our kind. . . .”

“Death to the queen!”

I held my breath, bracing for trouble as I scanned the crowds. I searched face after face, not sure what I expected to find. I could feel both Zafir and Brook right at my back now, as if they too, sensed danger.

Then I saw the first boy, small and timid-looking, making his way down the sidewalk toward the school. Toward me.

I moved away from the podium and hovered at the top step. I went down one and then another.

Brook stopped me. “What are you doing? You can’t go down there now,” she hissed under her breath.

“It’s okay. He’s afraid.” I met him halfway down the steps, and by the time I did, there were a dozen more children behind him, all wearing varied expressions of eagerness, reticence, hopefulness, and fear. This was all new to them, all frightening and exciting at the same time.

I knew how they felt.

I leaned down to the little boy who’d been brave enough to go first. “What’s your name?” I asked, staring into his wide, brown eyes.

He ducked his head, keeping his gaze averted, and I was reminded once more how things used to be.

“It’s okay,” I told him. “You’re safe here.”

Slowly he lifted his chin, until he was eye to eye with me. His voice was just as small as his stature. “Phoenix, Your Majesty. My name’s Phoenix.”

I rose, and held out my hand for him. “Welcome to the Academy, Phoenix. Glad you could make it.”

The Academy was only my initial stop, but it was the longest of my tour through the city. My day had been rigidly planned, and each stop timed carefully. I would stay here throughout the morning classes so I could assess how the changes were being implemented, and then I would be escorted to Capitol Hall, so I could see how the New Equality was being handled by the city’s officials.

The first thing I was aware of as I walked through the hallways, was that other than the fact that it was a school, the Academy was nothing like School 33.

Here, the students were assigned individual storage lockers, a place where they could store their books—books that were new, the pages undamaged and held together by unbroken bindings—rather than lugging them in their overstuffed book bags from class to class. They had supplies like paper, pens, ink, paints, and canvases. They had instruments for their music units, and all manner of equipment for games and sport. The desks, too, were unmarred by years of use and disrepair, and all were perfectly matched and aligned in neat rows. The walls were freshly painted, clean and pristine.

Everything sparkled. Everything shone as if it were new. As if the school had been fashioned from the very wallets of prosperity.

But the greatest difference of all had nothing to do with the building or the trappings of wealth, it had to do with time—the changes made since Sabara no longer ruled.

Now, there was no daily pledge. No formal recitation made to honor the queen.

To honor me.

It was strange, the void its absence created at the beginning of the school day, and we all—even the instructor of the class I sat in on—awkwardly traversed that space as if, at any moment, the city’s loudspeakers might crackle to life once more, filling the hallways and the streets outside with the ominously familiar words. I could feel the students’ curious eyes falling upon me more times than I could count. I tried to pretend I didn’t notice, but it was impossible to ignore entirely. It weighed on me, and I hoped that soon the strangeness of it would pass. That soon the people would find that normalcy I so wanted for them.

I turned my gaze to Sydney, whose class this was, and I smiled.

It will be okay, I told myself, acting as if I didn’t see Zafir looming in my periphery. As if I didn’t know Brook was right behind me, guarding my back rather than taking notes as other kids her age were.

I’d expected to be swarmed the moment I’d stepped into the Academy, to be overwhelmed by questions and eager admiration, even if I didn’t necessarily want that sort of attention. So it had been sort of strange, the bubble that formed around us instead. Either because of who I was, or because of Zafir’s intimidating scowl, most of the students made an effort to steer clear of us, giving us an unnecessarily wide berth. Even going so far as to avoid making eye-contact with me altogether.