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decor.”
    “I think you’ll find Ivar unconcerned with pretty well everything but his work,” Willem said. “He’s a very serious man, and it shows in his drawings.”
    Thurene glanced down at the drawings and said, “But so messy.”
    “Don’t confuse the hand with the intent, Mother,” said Willem. “The work he’s done while at the college
    is beyond any of the other students. He makes me look like a-“
    “Doix’t,” Thurene interrupted. “You are not in competition with this young man, with his wild drawings and mad ideas. Your potential… Well, I mustn’t beam.”
    Willem chuckled and said, “You’re my mother. Beam if need be.”
    Thurene touched his arm with real affection and turned him gently back toward the door. Together they left the spartan room and the drawings behind them.
    “You will go farther than your friend Ivar, my dear,” Thurene said, holding her son’s arm as they walked out onto the narrow landing, “and I’m certain you will do better than your pitiful father, You will save us both. You will save your family name. I’ve never been more sure of anything. As long as you remain strong and make the best choices… The things you have—your face, your refined manner—you will leave that Ivar Devorast, that stoic, indecipherable, odd little—”
    Willem stopped short, startling her again, and she appeared about to ask him what was the matter when she noticed Ivar Devorast standing on the staircase not three feet in front of them.
    Willem’s face flushed and his heart sank. Surely Devorast had heard every word she’d said, and though his mother had no concern for Devorast’s feelings, Willem couldn’t bear the thought that she might have embarrassed herself and his friend.
    “Master…” Thurene started, then her tongue seemed to twist in her mouth. She tried again with: “Mister… Duh-“
    “Ivar,” Willem said, in an effort to come to her rescue, “there you are. I was hoping I’d run into you.”
    Devorast stood perfectly still, both feet on one stair and looked at Willem, simply waiting for him to continue. The young man’s red hair was unkempt, his simple, unattractive clothing—a style popular in the Year of the Bow,
    Thurene enjoyed pointing out—were stained with charcoal and ink.
    “You’ll be at the reception, I hope,” Willem said.
    “Reception?” Thurene asked as if it was the first she’d heard of it.
    “Yes,” Devorast answered, his deep voice at once aloof and commanding.
    Willem nodded at Devorast, then looked down at Thurene and said, “The college is hosting a reception for the recent graduates. We were told to bring some samples of our work to show to some important people invited by the college. It could mean a placement for both of us, if all goes well.”
    Thurene put a hand to her chest.
    “Oh, Willem, my dear, that’s lovely,” she said, not bothering to keep the tiniest part of the excitement she felt from showing in both her voice and her face. “A placement. With the Court, perhaps?”
    Willem chuckled again and said, “From your lips to Tymora’s ear, Mother. Perhaps the Court or perhaps a private concern. Fortifications and such for me, I hope, and likely a spot with a naval architect for Ivar here.”
    Thurene’s excitement faded from her face when she turned to Devorast and said, “Ships, is it, then?”
    Devorast nodded, but said nothing. He still hadn’t moved a muscle.
    “Ivar’s designs for shipboard weapons are… are already attracting a great deal of attention,” said Willem. “If he brings the sketches he has in his room, well, he’ll place for sure.”
    They both looked at Devorast for a reaction, but he gave them nothing but a glance at their feet. Willem realized a second before his mother did that they were standing at the top of the stairs, blocking Devorast’s way up, and all he wanted was for them to move.
    They stepped aside and he passed to the door of his room where he stopped, turned to them, and