The morning air in Haven Heights didn't just drift; it bit. Grace sat on the edge of the kitchen table, swinging her legs and shoving a piece of toasted bread into her mouth while Elara tried to organize a stack of delivery slips.

  "Don’t forget the Halloways," Elara said, tapping a finger on the counter. "And Grace, please, try not to race the Luma-cart this time. You’re going to break a crate or your neck."

  "I didn't race it mom," Grace said around a mouthful of toast, her obsidian eyes glinting with a sharp, mischievous light. "I just moved faster than it did. There’s a difference."

  "Go," Elara laughed, shoving the delivery bag into Grace’s hands.

  Outside, Mable was already waiting, her blue eyes squinting against the bright reflection of the snow. She took half the bags without being asked, and the two of them set off. The deliveries were a routine they could do blindfolded. They moved through the narrow stone alleys, dodging laundry lines and leaping over the steaming floor-vents.

  When they reached the bakery, the owner handed Grace a broken bit of cinnamon crust. Grace didn't say a profound thank you; she just snatched it, broke it in half, and handed the bigger piece to Mable.

  "You got flour on your nose, Mr. Henderson," Grace called out over her shoulder as they jogged away.

  "You’ve got too much mouth, Grace!" the baker hollered back, but he was grinning. It was a normal morning in a normal home.

  The shift came two weeks later, and it felt like a door slamming shut.

  They stood in the central courtyard of the Village School, surrounded by the smell of old paper and wet wool. The Headmaster was reading names from a ledger, his voice a dry drone that cut through the chilly air.

  "Mable... Section B. Room Four."

  Mable’s hand tightened on the strap of her bag. She looked at Grace.

  "Grace... Section A. Room One."

  The world seemed to go very quiet.

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  Grace didn't move. She stood her ground, her jaw setting in a hard, stubborn line that Dad always said reminded him of a mountain mule.

  "There's a mistake," Grace said, her voice loud enough to make the Headmaster pause.

  "No mistake, girl. Sections are based on the aptitude testing from last month. Move along."

  Grace didn't move. "I'm not going to Room One. I’m going to Room Four."

  "Ace," Mable whispered, stepping closer. "You can't. The teachers will get mad. It’s just... it’s just across the hall."

  "I don't care if it's across the street," Grace snapped, though her anger wasn't directed at Mable. She looked at the heavy stone archway of the school like it was a prison. "We’ve done everything together since we were in diapers. I’m not sitting in a room with a bunch of strangers for six hours a day."

  Mable reached out, her small fingers catching Grace’s wrist. She looked up at Grace with those clear blue eyes, her expression soft and impossibly patient.

  "Ace, look at me," Mable said quietly. "If you fight them now, they’ll make you stay after school. Then we won't even get to walk home together. If you just go, we can meet at the big fountain for every lunch. I’ll save you the best seat."

  Grace looked at the Headmaster, then back at Mable. The fire in her eyes didn't go out, but it simmered down into a reluctant pout.

  "It's stupid," Grace muttered, kicking a loose stone.

  "I know," Mable agreed, giving her a little nudge toward Room One. "But you're the smartest person I know. You'll finish your work in ten minutes and spend the rest of the time thinking of ways to annoy the teacher. You have to tell me everything at lunch, okay?"

  Grace let out a long, dramatic sigh, finally adjusting her bag. "Fine. But if my teacher is boring, I’m jumping out the window."

  "I'll be waiting below with a pillow," Mable teased, her smile bright and relieved.

  That evening, the heat in the house was thick and comforting. Dad—Marin—was sitting in his armchair with his boots off, rubbing a hand over his tired face. The Luma-pipes hummed a steady, low tune in the walls, a sound that always meant safety.

  Grace was sprawled on the rug at his feet, her head resting against his knee while she grumbled about the "tragedy" of Section A.

  "And then he said we have to memorize the entire history of the Great Ascent," Grace groaned. "Dad, I was there for the mini ascent last year. I think I get the gist. It’s a lot of climbing and complaining."

  Marin chuckled, his rough hand resting on her dark hair. "It’s about respect for the mountain, Grace. Though I agree, the climbing is the worst part."

  Mom walked over, drying her hands on a towel, and sat on the edge of the hearth. She reached out and pulled Grace’s feet into her lap, absentmindedly rubbing them.

  "I heard you gave the Headmaster a piece of your mind," Elara said, raising an eyebrow.

  Grace looked up, unrepentant. "He started it."

  "She just missed Mable," Marin said, a knowing look in his eyes. He looked at Elara, and for a moment, the two of them shared a quiet, warm smile over their daughter’s head.

  "It’s going to be a long year," Elara sighed, but she leaned over and kissed Grace’s forehead. "But you'll survive. Both of you."

  Grace leaned into her father’s leg, the warmth of the fire and the steady rhythm of her parents' breathing making her eyes heavy. For all her stubbornness and her sharp tongue, she felt small here. Safe. The school sections and the boring history didn't matter as long as the pipes were warm and her parents were within arm's reach.