Petra Dane stood at the front of the assembly hall and recited the Marshal's speech word for word. Her voice held steady. Her hands did not. She pressed them flat against her uniform trousers so the younger students would not see them shake. In three weeks the whole marsh would gather in the public square. The broadcast would reach every village. She meant to stand at that microphone and tell them what the Marshal really was. But a girl's word was nothing. They would call her a traitor and drag her off the platform. She needed proof. Something no one could dismiss. That night she waited until the dormitory went dark. The building was six floors of gray stone, orderly rows of beds, red trim on every window. She had lived here since she was nine. She knew which stairs creaked. She climbed to the monitor's office on the fourth floor, where the reports were filed. If the Marshal had signed orders about the students who disappeared, the copies would be there. The office door was already open. A lamp burned inside. Oskar Lund sat at the desk. He had monitored the students here for years, watching from corners, writing down who said what. Petra had feared his soft, ink-stained hands more than any guard's. Now he sat over a stack of report forms, and every one was blank. He filled in a name. Then he crossed it out. His thick glasses had slid down his nose. "You're looking for the Marshal's orders," he said. He did not turn around. "The signed ones. About the beds that emptied." Petra froze in the doorway. "I don't know what you mean." "You do." He finally looked at her. His eyes were tired. "I've filed nothing true in months. I couldn't. Not after the last three." He opened a drawer and drew out a thin folder. "They keep the real files in the sub-basement. Behind the boiler. I have the key. I don't have the courage to walk down there." He set the key on the desk between them. Petra stared at it. This was the man who had reported children for whispering. Now his hand shook worse than hers. "Why give it to me?" "Because you're going to stand up in that square," Oskar said. "I've heard you practice the speeches. I've watched your hands. You hate every word." He slid the key closer. "Take it before I change my mind." Petra took the key. It was warm from his hand. She went down, past the beds, past the boiler, and found the files behind a loose panel. Orders. Names. The Marshal's signature at the bottom of each page. She held the proof she needed. When she climbed back up, the office was empty. Oskar's chair was pushed back. His grey jacket was gone. On the desk lay one report form, filled in at last. It carried her name, and the words: seen leaving after curfew. He had covered his tracks by turning her in.