Clara and Elise excused themselves, and the footman closed the door behind them.
Edmund gestured to the chair across the desk. Owen sat.
"So," Edmund said. "Did you enjoy the capital?"
"I did," Owen said. "There was a lot to see. I spent a few days just walking around the city, and the ball was impressive. And I met some good people."
He told his father about the markets, and the size of the palace, and William, and Julian. Edmund asked questions here and there and listened to the answers.
Owen didn’t bring up Lucien. His father was asking about the parts of the trip he had enjoyed, and Lucien wasn’t one of them.
When he finished, Edmund leaned back in his chair.
"I also heard," he said, "that you fought a duel with Lucien de Clare."
Owen paused. He hadn’t expected his father to know already.
Then he remembered that Gareth had telephoned before the duel. After that, a report of how it ended would have reached the estate soon enough.
"Why did you take his arm?" Edmund asked.
He didn’t say it sharply. He simply wanted to know.
"He insulted the family," Owen said. "He accepted the wager knowing exactly what the terms were. When he lost, he wanted to make excuses instead of paying. So I didn’t let him."
Edmund studied his face for several seconds.
"You did well," he said.
That was all. But Owen could hear in his voice that he meant it, and that he was pleased.
Owen smiled a little. "Thank you, Father."
"Go on, then. Get some rest."
Owen stood and went to the door. He had his hand on it when Edmund spoke again.
"Ah. Wait. I almost forgot."
Edmund searched through the documents on his desk and drew out a sealed envelope. The wax on it was stamped with an insignia Owen recognised at once.
"This came for you," Edmund said. "From the Imperial Military Academy."
Owen crossed back to the desk and took it. "Is it about the entrance examinations?"
"Read it in your room," Edmund said.
Owen looked at him, but his father had already picked up his pen.
"Thank you," Owen said, and left.
* * *
He went to see his mother first.
Eleanor was in her sitting room. She looked up when he came in, and her face lit up at once. She was already halfway out of her chair before he had crossed the room.
"Owen." She took his face in both hands and looked at him properly. Her hazel eyes went over him carefully, as though she were checking that he had come back with everything he had left with. "You’re home. How was the journey? Did you enjoy the capital?"
"It went well," Owen said. "I enjoyed it."
"And have you rested at all since you arrived? You look tired."
"I’ve only just got here, Mother. I went to see Father first."
"Then sit down for a moment, at least." She drew him over to the chair beside hers and sat with him, tucking a loose strand of chestnut hair back behind her ear. "Have you eaten?"
"Not yet."
"I’ll have something sent up to your room." She smiled at him. "Tell me about it, then. But only the short version. You can tell me the rest once you’ve slept."
He told her about the city and the ball. She listened the way she always did, attentive and calm, and she asked whether the inn had been comfortable and whether he had been sleeping properly.
He stayed with her for a while. When he finally got up to go, she squeezed his hand before she let him leave.
* * *
His room was exactly as he had left it.
Some of his luggage had already been brought up and stacked by the wardrobe, and Agnes had clearly been at work. The curtains were open, and his books were back in their places on the shelf. After days of carriages and inn rooms, the quiet of it felt good.
Owen sat down on the edge of his bed and looked at the envelope.
He turned it over in his hands, ran his thumb across the seal, and then broke it carefully and unfolded the letter inside.
It was a formal invitation. Owen Ferrers was invited to sit the entrance examinations of the Imperial Military Academy. All eligible candidates, it said, were required to complete the necessary assessments before admission could be granted.
The examinations would be held on the first day of next month.
Owen checked the date. Today was the seventeenth.
He had exactly two weeks.
A smile spread across his face.
He had been hearing about the Imperial Military Academy for years. Gareth was already a third-year Officer Cadet there. But Owen had never set foot inside the place, and when he thought about it, he realised he knew surprisingly little about what it was actually like.
What were the training grounds like? Who were the instructors? There would be awakened students there from all over the Empire. Some of them would be from the families he had met in the capital, and others would be people he had never heard of. And the training would be nothing like what he had done at home.
He read the letter through again.
Gareth had talked about the Academy now and then, but only in passing. A complaint about an instructor, a story about a friend. Owen couldn’t remember him ever describing what an ordinary day there was like, or what the examinations had involved.
He would ask him tonight.
There was a knock at the door.
"Come in."
Agnes stepped inside. "Your bath is ready, Young Master."
"Thank you, Agnes."
Owen folded the letter carefully and put it away in the drawer of his desk. Then he got up and went to bathe. Once he was finished, he would go and find Gareth.
* * *
The chamber was cold.
It was always cold. The floor was polished stone, dark and gleaming, and the furniture was heavy and old. The de Clare insignia hung on the wall behind the desk, and the tall windows let in only a dull, gray light. Lucien had been in this room more times than he could count, and he had never once felt comfortable in it.
He felt even less comfortable now.
His father sat behind the desk. Grand Duke Isembard de Clare was dressed formally, as he always was, and he sat upright in his chair with his hands flat on the desk in front of him. His expression was severe. His eyes moved from Alaric to Lucien and stayed there.
Alaric stood upright beside him. His clothes were neat, despite the journey, and he held himself as calmly as ever.
Lucien knew what he must look like beside him.
He was pale, and the journey had exhausted him. He could walk without help now, but his left sleeve hung empty, pinned up neatly above the place where his arm had been. There was no hiding it. He could feel his father’s eyes going to it again and again.
Before they left the capital, a healer from the Church had come to treat him. She had laid her hands over the wound, and the bleeding had stopped, and the raw flesh had closed. She had saved his life. But she had not been able to give him back his arm.