photo of the man they all called Teacher, bright blue eyes a desaturated sepia, still smiling from a lifetime away. He looked not a day older or younger. And his photograph had been ringed around in a black marker pen. “Sextus,” Harrow began, ominously. “I couldn’t tell,” said Palamedes. For his part, he sounded almost dazed. “Ninth, I absolutely could not tell. Another beguiling corpse?” “Then who’s controlling him? There’s nobody here but us, Sextus.” “I’d like to hope so. Could he be independent? But how—
