Celia Ashcroft did not sit where guests sat.
Guests took the empty desk by the door, observed the period, left a note for someone above them.
That was the shape of cross-class observation when it happened, which in Class Z it never had.
She pulled the chair from the desk in front of his, turned it, and sat in it backward, arms folded on the rest, facing him.
"You don't take notes," she said.
"I know the material."
"Class Z material. Yes. I'd imagine." She looked at the board, then back.
"I meant you don't take notes on the room. You should. Half of it is watching you and you've clocked all of them and written none of it down."
"I don't need it written down."
"No," she said, and something behind her eyes filed that. "You wouldn't."
◆◆◆◆
She asked questions for the rest of the period.
Not the questions he'd braced for. Not where did the power come from, not what happened under the east yard, not the assembly.
