Three days of classes.
That was all it had taken for Sanctuary to develop problems.
The leadership booklet had been sitting on my desk since the evening the residences were named. I had read eleven pages of it. Penelope had read all of it, twice, which she mentioned at intervals she clearly believed were subtle.
"Page nineteen."
"I'm aware there's a page nineteen."
"You haven't read page nineteen."
"I'm aware of that too."
She sat down across from me in the Sanctuary common room, which was, at that hour, in a state I would generously describe as evolving.
Someone had moved three chairs to the window and not returned them. The supply cabinet by the stairs was open and mostly empty. There was a stack of borrowed textbooks on the floor that had been growing since the second day, owned by nobody, claimed by nobody, migrating slowly toward the fireplace like something that intended to nest.
"Page nineteen," Penelope said again, "is residence duties."
