7

As autumn well and truly settles in over Gallatin, Delacroix and Freddie make an unofficial, wary truce. You study furiously, spending much of your prep time buried beneath piles of papers.

Late one morning, Miss Dalca leads your Philosophy class outside where a wide mule-drawn wagon is waiting, loaded with crates. Karson sits on the driver's box, and tips his hat to the group.

"Apparently it's traditional for students to bring food to the Gallatin miners at this time of year," Miss Dalca says. She looks faintly put out as she adjusts her fur hat. "So. This is our time to help the populace."

Max bounds aboard, helping Delacroix up behind him. "I can't wait to get out in the open," he says happily. "We're so cooped up inside."

"Yes, well," Miss Dalca says as she steps up. "I'd be more excited if we were doing something actually useful."

"We are helping, though, aren't we?" Gonzalez points out. Between her and Max, they've taken up most of the bench; you squeeze in alongside them.

Karson flicks the mules' reins, and the wagon rumbles off. The trees are aflame with orange and red, making the college valley look like a bonfire, and there's a real bite in the air.

Circling the pretty, flower-filled perimeter of Gallatin town, the wagon passes into mining country. Freddie murmurs that she heard Lady Renaldt owns the gold mines here; indeed, when the workers' houses come into view, you spot the Renaldt crest embossed discreetly above the front doors.

"I hear the mines are most lucrative," Miss Dalca says. "I imagine the work performed here improves Gallatin greatly."

"Why don't we get better food, then?" Max says loudly, and Gonzalez and Delacroix stifle snorts of laughter.

Miss Dalca looks serene. "That's a good question, Mr. Van Meyer," she says, and starts discussing labor laws and common practices in modern Westerlin. Max nods along, looking more interested than you might have expected.

The wagon draws up on a scrubby patch of grass. A tent is already set up and a group of roughly-dressed miners are mingling on the green. "Good morning," Miss Dalca calls out. "We're here for the college lunch."

Karson leaps to the ground, and you disembark with the rest of the students. One middle-aged woman steps forward, beaming, and heartily shakes Miss Dalca's hand; others hang back, muttering to each other and rolling their eyes. You note a few younger miners, wiry and tired-looking; they must only be around fifteen, the same age as a Gallatin fourth-year.

Keeping your distance, you survey the workers. The cheerful woman appears to be a leader; she wears a blue badge on her overalls. The miners in the reluctant group mostly seem like subordinates. This can't be the entirety of the workers, so you suspect they've been cajoled or ordered to come here.

Following Miss Dalca's directions, you help Karson and the others haul barrels and crates off the wagon. Miss Dalca purses her lips as she surveys the green.

"Hartmann, get to the tent and start cooking," she says. "Lady Renaldt said your beans are excellent. Karson, set up the tables, and Max, you serve."

Her gaze falls upon you.