Next Day Morning…
Dining Table…
There was a rustle at the table as Fatty Ben himself creaked in through the garden gate, hair a mess, eyes glittering with the sort of sleep-deprived excitement only he could carry. He lurched to the table, plopped down a small sack, and almost knocked over a teapot.
"You will not believe—" he began, breathless, then saw the faces and raised his hands like a child caught in mischief. "Enough, enough! I'll tell in proper order. Sit, eat, listen!" He grabbed a steaming bun and began to nibble, slurping tea noisily between sentences.
"Fatty," Amelia said dryly, "Speak plainly."
Fatty wagged his spoon in the air. "There's a competition—an Academy-wide tournament. Three months from now. The prize… is entry to the Memory Ponds."
Silence fell in the hall like a curtain. The name landed and rippled.
