“Sydney?” asked Sheridan, fixing that smile on me. She held up her tray. “There’s one cup left.” I wordlessly shook my head, and she placed the cup on Addison’s desk. “I’ll just leave it here in case you change your mind, shall I?”

I couldn’t take my eyes off that cup and wondered which Sheridan wanted more: to see me suffering and deprived, or to have me risk it all and throw up in front of my classmates.

“Favorite of yours?” a low voice asked.

I was so certain no one could be speaking to me directly that I didn’t even look for the speaker right away. With great effort, I dragged my gaze from the longed-for latte and discovered it was my neighbor who’d spoken, a tall, nice-looking guy who was maybe five years older than me. He had a lanky frame and wore wire-rimmed glasses that added an intellectual air, not that Alchemists needed it.

“What makes you say that?” I asked quietly.

He smiled knowingly. “Because that’s how it always is. When someone goes to their first purging, the rest of us get ‘rewarded’ with one of that person’s favorite foods. Sorry about this, by the way.” He paused to drink some of the latte. “But I haven’t had coffee in ages.”

I winced and looked away. “Knock yourself out.”

“At least you resisted,” he added. “Not everyone does. Addison doesn’t like the risk of us spilling hot drinks in here, but she’d like it even less if someone got sick all over her studio.”

I glanced up at our teacher, who was offering advice to a gray-haired detainee. “She doesn’t seem to like a lot of things. Except gum.”

The smell of coffee was stronger than ever in the room, both alluring and revolting. Trying desperately to block it out, I lifted my paintbrush and was about to attempt some grapes when I heard a click of disapproval beside me. I glanced back at the guy, who shook his head at me.

“You’re just going to start like that? Come on, maybe you don’t have the values of a good Alchemist, but you should still have the logic of one. Here.” He offered me a pencil. “Sketch. At least start with quadrants to guide you.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll taint your pencil?” The words were out before I could stop them.

He chuckled. “You can keep it.”

I turned back to the blank canvas and stared at it for several moments. Gingerly, I divided my canvas into four parts and then did my best to make a rough sketch of the fruit bowl, paying careful attention to where each piece was in relation to the others. Partway through, I noticed the easel was too tall for me, further complicating things, but I couldn’t figure out how to adjust it. Seeing my struggles, the guy beside me leaned over and deftly lowered my easel to a more suitable height before resuming his own work.

“Thanks,” I said. The expectant canvas in front of me diminished whatever pleasure I might have felt from the friendly gesture. I attempted to sketch again. “I’ve seen my boyfriend do this a hundred times. Never thought I’d be doing it as some sort of twisted ‘therapy.’”

“Your boyfriend’s an artist?”

“Yes,” I said warily, uncertain if I wanted to engage in this topic. Thanks to Sheridan, it was no secret my boyfriend was a Moroi.

The guy gave a small snort of amusement. “Artistic, huh? Haven’t heard that one before. Usually when I meet girls like you—who fall for guys like them—all I ever hear about is how cute they are.”

“He is really cute,” I admitted, curious as to how many girls like me this guy had met.

He shook his head in amusement as he worked on his painting. “Of course. I guess he’d have to be for you to risk so much, huh? Alchemists never fall for the Moroi who aren’t cute and brooding.”

“I never said he was brooding.”

“He’s a ‘really cute’ vampire who paints. Are you saying he doesn’t brood?”

I felt my cheeks flush a little. “He broods a little. Okay . . . a lot.”

My neighbor chuckled again, and we both painted in silence for some time. Then, out of the blue, he said, “I’m Duncan.”

I was so startled, my hand jerked, causing my already bad banana to look even worse. In over three months, these were the first genuinely civil words anyone had spoken to me. “I . . . I’m Sydney,” I said automatically.

“I know,” he said. “And it’s nice to meet you, Sydney.”

My hand began to tremble, forcing me to set down the brush. I had made it through months of deprivation in the dark, endured the glares and name-calling from my peers, and somehow even survived being made medically ill without a tear. But this small act of kindness, this nice and ordinary gesture between two people . . . well, it almost broke me when nothing else had. It drove home how far away I was from everything—from Adrian, my friends, safety, sanity . . . it was all gone. I was here in this tightly regulated prison of a world, where my every move was governed by people who wanted to change the way I thought. And there was no sign of when I’d get out of here.

“Now, now,” said Duncan brusquely. “None of that. They love it when you cry.”

I blinked back my tears and gave a hasty nod as I retrieved my brush. I set it back on the canvas, barely aware of what I did. Duncan also continued painting, his eyes on his work as he spoke more.

“You’ll probably be able to eat when dinner comes. But don’t overdo it. Be smart about what you eat—and don’t be surprised if you find another favorite of yours on the menu.”

“They really know how to make a point, don’t they?” I grumbled.

“Yes. Yes, they do.” Even without looking at him, I could tell he was smiling, though his voice soon grew serious again. “You remind me of someone I used to know here. She was my friend. When the powers-that-be realized we were friends, she went away. Friends are armor, and they don’t like that here. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

“I—I think so,” I said.

“Good. Because I’d like us to be friends.”

The chimes signaling the end of class sounded, and Duncan began gathering up his things. He started to walk away, and I found myself asking, “What was her name? Your friend who was taken?”

He paused, and the look of pain that crossed his face immediately made me regret asking. “Chantal,” he said at last, his voice barely a whisper. “I haven’t seen her in over a year.” Something in his tone made me think she’d been more than a friend. But I couldn’t think much about that when I processed the rest of what he’d said.