The locations of his bag and of his notebook appeared to have changed slightly. Quickly, he set down the plates to inspect further. Nothing from his bag seemed to be missing or alterred—but the same couldn’t be said for his notes. About half of the pages were missing—including the ones detailing his plans for the Creature Fair—and of those that remained, most were covered in so many scribblings, scratches, and blots, that they were virtually illegible.

Harold stood from the table, flabbergasted. He kept flipping through pages, but he knew that there would be no salvaging this. He remembered some of the knowledge contained within the notebook, but he’d never be able to recreate everything from scratch. The only way to recover the lost information was to return to the library. He’d already been pressed for time, and now he was back at exactly square one.

Who could have done this? Harold wondered, but the question soon answered itself. He looked up from the notebook and promptly locked eyes with Olivia Tailor, who was standing by one of the exits, and who had, apparently, been staring at him with what Harold was sure was a look of guilt. Harold almost approached her at once, but was stopped by the memory of his previous mistake. Instead, he stopped to throw the ruined book into his bag, and sling the bag over his shoulder before marching towards the door.

By the time he caught up with Tailor, she’d already left the building and was heading to her dormitory, wherever that was. She walked briskly, but Harold managed to catch her by the arm. She turned around to face him, an irritated look on her face. “If you want to get my attention, Baker, then words work just fine.” Cooly, she removed herself from his grasp and dusted herself off. “I’d ask if something were wrong, but clearly there is, so go ahead and say whatever you were going to say.”

Harold held up the defiled notebook.

“That… doesn’t tell me anything.”

“You did this,” Harold said with venom in his voice, “Or had something to do with it.”

With a silk-gloved hand, Tailor hid a smile that quickly became a laugh. She was laughing at him. “What, you think that because you disrespected me today—both in front of our professor and our classmates—that I would stoop so low as to sabotage your work?” Eventually, she removed the hand, but her expression stayed the same. “You must think I actually care about anything you say.”

“If not you, then who?”

Tailor gave him a wry shrug that was emphasized by the padded shoulders of her coat. “I have no idea. But if you ask me, the fault is your own for not keeping a closer eye on your own belongings. In fact—” her gaze at that moment could have pierced stone, “as far as I’m concerned, you’re lucky you still have a book to complain about. Whoever went through your things could have just taken the thing and been done with it.”

Harold froze, momentarily taken aback, which gave Tailor enough time to turn back around and continue walking with the same imperious pace as before. By now, more people were leaving the Refectory, so she quickly blended into the crowd. Harold could try following after her to make her explain herself, but he doubted that she would give him any more answers, and anyway, doing that wouldn’t bring his notes back.

That realization did nothing to assuage his anger, though. Gritting his teeth, and gripping the strap of his bag with vexation, he turned to head back to the Refectory—only to immediately bump into Ralph Matheson.

Matheson always walked with a stiff-backed, overly-graceful manner, as a king walking amongst peasants; now, his gait was no less contemptuous. Rather than stop in surprise, as Harold had, he instead chose to shoulder his way past, and in doing so knock Harold roughly to the ground. Without looking back, he said, “Watch where you’re going, Baker.” And then he disappeared into the crowd as well.

Harold stared after him in disbelief that quickly turned into a cold fury. Slowly, he rose to his feet, and promptly winced in pain. He’d fallen onto a gravel path with surprisingly-sharp stones, and sure enough, when he raised a hand to inspect the damage, he found that his palm was covered in countless tiny scratches, some of which were bleeding.

It was in times like those that Harold found himself recalling his days at the orphanage. He remembered never having enough to eat. He remembered freezing winters and grueling summers. He remembered being constantly pushed around and knocked over, for although he was fairly tall now, his growth had been slow, and for a long time, he’d been the smallest person there—a fact which bullies never failed to take advantage of.

If Harold tried really hard, he could even remember his parents, albeit barely. He recalled how, when he’d been just three years old, they’d went and gotten themselves eaten alive by a Monster, leaving him behind with nothing. No inheritance, no family members to look after him—only the body he was born into, and a grudge against anything reptilian. At the thought of it, Harold’s bloodied hand clenched unconsciously.

This was his other reason for coming to the Institute—the one that he rarely acknowledged, even to himself, but which guided his actions all the same. Yes, it was the pride of his hometown; and yes, he needed information if he was to have any chance at beating back the Monstrous Threat; but also because of a yet-unspoken but deeply-felt promise that he’d made to himself long ago not to let himself get pushed around or taken advantage of again; and that, before he died, to leave something meaningful behind.

Harold renewed this promise now. No matter what, he wasn’t going to let Matheson or Tailor beat him at anything or to anything; and even if he had to break the rules or take a few risks to keep that vow, he would.

Harold was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t notice Theodore’s soft-footed approach. He almost jumped out of his skin when the red-haired boy grabbed him on the shoulder.

Theodore said, “Hey, I lost you back there. Dinner’s over, so you’re gonna have to eat extra at breakfast tomorrow, I guess.” Then he saw the stiffness of Harold’s shoulders, and the way his jaw was clenched. “Sorry, were you in one of those ‘scientific reveries?’ Do I need to repeat myself again?”

Harold wanted to scold Theodore, both for startling him, and for letting someone tear up his things. But in his heart, Harold knew that Tailor had been right about at least one thing—he really needed to be more vigilant himself. And anyway, he seemed to be making enemies everywhere he went—Tailor, Matheson, that mysterious third person he’d seen in the library, probably even more people who he didn’t even know about yet. In light of that, he really couldn’t afford to turn his nose up at his one ally—even if that ally could be incredibly frustrating.

So Harold took a moment to calm himself. He breathed deep, in and out, and let his still-clenched fist go slack. Eventually, he said, “No, I heard you. I was just… thinking.”

Theodore nodded, and fell into step beside him as they began making their way to their dormitory. “About the Fair?” he asked.

Harold gave a short laugh, which Theodore noticed was laced with bitterness. “I guess you could say that.”

“I assume Tailor and my cousin are also competing.”

“That’s right.”

Theodore nodded again. He saw the scratches on his friend’s hands, but didn’t comment on it. “So. Do you have a plan?”

Harold eyed Theo suspiciously. “A plan for what?”

“For how you’re going to beat them, of course!” Theodore nudged him playfully. “Don’t tell me that isn’t what’s on your mind.”

Harold looked at the other boy in surprise, then laughed again. His roommate could certainly be unusually perceptive at times. “Well, I can’t say that you’re wrong.”

After a few minutes of walking, they came to their building. Theodore said, “So do you have a plan or not? I know you’re not going to tell me about it either way, but you seemed pretty serious back there, so it had better be a good one.”

“Yes,” Harold said, “I do.”

First, he needed to go back to the library to retake all of the notes he’d lost. But that still wouldn’t fix the fact that his dog would take way too long to create, so he’d also be working on a way to obtain nitroblathlamene. It was against the rules of the Fair, and on top of that, it was fiercely guarded by the Institute; but it was also the only way that he’d be able to win, and keep his promise to himself. And of course, there would be a few other steps he’d need to carry out as well. And he’d need to guard against more attacks from Tailor and Matheson—and possibly carry out a few of his own. It wasn’t going to be easy, but… he could do it. He would do it.

Harold went to bed that night with no doubts that first place would be his. This prediction—however ill-founded it may have been at the time—would eventually prove true; Harold was going to win the Creature Fair. What Harold did not predict, however—what no one could have predicted—was how dramatically the Fair would alter the course of his life—and the lives of everyone in Xantrak.