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Kinder than what, exactly?

He didn't explain, and none of the possibilities that occurred to me were especially comforting.

The form was headed Voluntary Release and Registration (Hollow). Beneath the title were several dense paragraphs of small print. I read every word. I had always been the kind of person who read terms and conditions before clicking agree, and for once the habit seemed useful.

If I signed, I could leave Ironmoor the following morning. The ferry would take me back to the harbor, where a gray car would be waiting to return me to Marion's house. I could go back to the life I'd had before any of this happened.

There was, of course, a condition.

Before I left, they would fit me with a registry cuff, an iron band secured around my left wrist and designed so that I couldn't remove it myself. The Council would use it to keep track of me.

For eighteen years, someone had watched Marion's house from a parked car. Apparently this was simply the official version of the same arrangement, only now they wanted to fasten it directly to my body.

By signing, I would also agree never to speak about Ironmoor, shifters, or anything I had seen or heard there to anyone the Council considered unauthorized. I assumed Marion counted as authorized, though the form didn't bother to clarify. Any breach of the agreement would be handled under the Accord, which sounded ominous largely because the document made no attempt to explain what that meant.

"The cuff is quite discreet," Mr. Aske said after watching me read. "Many people wear it beneath a watch strap."

I looked up. "And if I don't sign?"

"Then you remain here until the end-of-term Proving as a registered Hollow without a House." He folded his narrow hands on the desk. "At that point, the Council's envoys will review your status. I would not expect the classification to change."

"What exactly is the Proving?"

"The end-of-term examination." He delivered the answer with the polished flatness of someone repeating language he had used hundreds of times before. "Every first-year appears before the Council's envoys. Shifter first-years are matched against senior students so they can demonstrate control. Those who demonstrate sufficient control are confirmed in their Houses. Those who do not may be cuffed and returned to Council supervision."

"And Hollows?" I asked. "I can't shift. What am I supposed to demonstrate?"

"Nothing. Registered Hollows are not matched against another student. You will enter the Pit alone, the envoys will observe you, and your registration status will be reviewed."

He paused before adding, "It has never taken long."

I wasn't sure whether that was supposed to reassure me.

"How long do I have to decide?"

"Seven days from classification. That document is the offer itself, not a copy. It is issued only once. Return it signed and you may leave. Destroy it, lose it, or allow the seventh day to pass, and voluntary release will no longer be available before Council review."

I took the form back to the tower and told myself I only wanted time to think.

That same afternoon, the letter I had written to Marion came back.

I had written it on my first night in the tower, filling four pages on both sides. I told her about the ferry, Tamsin, the three hundred and eleven steps, and the Beastglass. I wrote a little about the courtyard, though not much. I told her how cold the tower became at night and how badly I wanted to come home. I also admitted, because there didn't seem to be any point lying to her, that part of me was beginning to understand why I didn't.

I had already tried calling her. On my first night, I stood in the long room over the kitchens and walked from one window to another with my phone in my hand. Later, I climbed onto the iron bed in the Lantern Tower and held the phone as high as I could against the glass.

There was no signal anywhere on Ironmoor.

According to the others, there never had been.

Letters were the only way to communicate with home.

Mine came back in a gray envelope stamped RETURNED FOR AMENDMENT.

Every line after Dear Marion had been covered with thick black ink. The strokes were so straight and careful that whoever had censored it must have used a ruler. Beneath the ruined pages, someone had typed out the version I was apparently allowed to send.

Dear Marion. I have arrived safely. The food is good. I am well. Love, Wren.

I stared at it.