Page 3 of The Grandest Game

The old Lyra might have taken a tone like that to heart. Instead, she read faster.Spot the pattern, spot the answer.She finished with one minute to spare and handed the test in, knowing exactly what the professor saw when he looked at her: a girl with a body that saidpartyto some people more than it had ever saiddancer.

Not that she was a dancer, anymore.

Lyra grabbed her bag and turned to leave, and the professor stopped her. “Wait,” he ordered tersely. “I’ll grade it for you.”Teach you a lessonwas what he meant.

Turning slowly back to face him gave Lyra time to school her features into a neutral expression.

After grading the first ten questions, the professor had marked only one of her answers incorrect. His eyebrows drew closer together as he continued grading, and that percentage held—then improved.

“Ninety-four.” He looked up from the test. “Not bad.”

Wait for it, Lyra thought.

“Just imagine what you could do if you put in a little more effort.”

“How would you know what kind of effort I put in?” Lyra asked. Her voice was quiet, but she met his eyes head-on.

“You’re wearing pajamas, you haven’t brushed your hair, and you slept through most of the test.” He’d recast her, then, from the party girl to the sloth. “I’ve never even seen you in lecture,” the professor continued sternly.

Lyra shrugged. “That’s because I’m not in this class.”

“You—” He stopped. He stared. “You’re…”

“I’m not in this class,” Lyra repeated. “I fell asleep in the prior lecture.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned and started up the aisle toward the exit. Her stride was long. Maybe it was graceful. Maybeshewas, still.

The professor called after her. “How did you get a ninety-four percent on a test for a class you’re not even taking?”

Lyra kept walking, her back to the man, as she answered. “Trying to write trick questions backfires if the person taking the test knows how to look for tricks.”

Chapter 2

LYRA

The email came in that afternoon: from the Registrar’s Office, CC-ed to the Bursar’s Office, subject lineEnrollment Hold. Reading it three times didn’t change its contents.

Lyra’s phone rang halfway through her fourth read.You’re fine, she reminded herself, as much out of habit as anything.Everything is fine.

Bracing herself for impact, she answered. “Hi, Mom.”

“So youdoremember me! And your phonedoeswork! And youhaven’tbeen kidnapped by a mathematically minded serial killer intent on adding you to his incredibly sinister equation.”

“New book?” Lyra guessed. Her mother was a writer.

“New book! She likes numbers more than people. He’s a cop who trusts his instincts more than her calculations. Theyhateeach other.”

“In a good way?”

“Averygood way. And speaking of mind-blowing chemistry and sizzling romantic tension… how are you?”

Lyra made a face. “Bad segue, Mom.”

“Answer the question, you avoider! I am going into daughter withdrawal. Your dad thinks the first week in November is too early for Christmas decorations, your brother is four and has no appreciation whatsoever for dark chocolate, and if I want anyone to watch rom-coms with me, I’m going to need zip ties.”

For the past three years, Lyra had done everything she could to seem normal, tobenormal—the Lyra who loved Christmas and chocolate and rom-coms. And every day, pretending had killed her a little more.

That was how she’d ended up at a college a thousand miles from home.

“So. How are you?” Her mom really was going to just keep asking, indefinitely.