The foreign letter had been folded shut for six days when the festival notice went up over it.
Same board.
Someone had pinned the festival sheet directly over the corner where Selah and Maren's invitation had hung, so the two things overlapped, the border seal peeking out under the fresh paper.
Soren read the top line twice.
Class Z Participation, it said, and under that, in the softer font the Council used when it wanted a thing to sound like a gift, In Recognition Of The Class's Rise.
Mandatory.
He stood in the corridor with the pack loose behind him and read the word again.
Recognition of the rise.
A season ago the rise was a line on Dani's screen, a fan-club number climbing where nobody had asked it to climb. Then it was a docket. Then it was a hearing that took the winter.
Now it was a festival.
◆◆◆◆
"It's a stage," Soren said.
Dani was at the terminal already. She didn't turn around, but her hands stopped, which was the same as turning around.
"For what," she said.
