Then he slapped his hand down on the page beneath Alistair’s nose, startling his pupil upright. “Oh! Chronicler!” Alistair gasped, frowning and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I do apologize. My mind’s simply not in the books today.”
“As though it ever is,” said the Chronicler, backing up and crossing his short arms. “What excuse do you have for me this time? Another pale-faced child? Or perhaps it was a whole crowd of them, eh?”
Used as he was to the Chronicler’s sharp tongue, Alistair did not reward this remark with so much as a sour look. He leaned back in his chair and, assuming a dismissive expression, yawned. “I’m simply not interested,” he said, which was both a truth and a falsehood. “I have . . . things on my mind.”
The Chronicler opened his mouth but shut it again suddenly. He backed up, returned to his desk, and climbed up onto the high stool. This stool had been commissioned and built specifically for him so that he could sit at Raguel’s tall desk. From this height, he was the equal of any man. He looked down his nose at Alistair.
“I’m sure contemplation of the forthcoming delights your impending marriage will bring is indeed a great strain on your intellectual capabilities,” he said. “But if you could see fit to set these pleasant daydreams aside and concentrate on the lesson before you, I’m certain even Lady Leta herself would understand.”
Alistair snorted. Beyond that, he could think of nothing to say, however, so he bowed his head, his fingers pressed to his throbbing temples, and tried yet again to make some sense of the lines scratched in umber ink across the vellum.
“The elder brother, Asha in his hand, stepped into Death’s—”
The library door swung open.
“Just what do you think you are doing?” rang the voice of Lady Mintha.
Not once in all the years of Alistair’s life had he compared his mother, even in his thoughts, to anything heavenly or ethereal. Yet he turned to her now with a smile one might very well bestow upon a rescuing angel, glad for any opportunity to escape the labor before him.
“Well met, Mother,” he said with false cheer and stood to greet her with a kiss as she swept into the room. Mintha put up a hand and pushed his face away, rounding on him in a flurry of thick gowns, her veils settling over her like the heavy darkness of thunderclouds.
“Four months, Alistair!” she said. “Four months, and have I seen even the slightest effort on your part?”
Alistair shrugged and settled back into his chair. He leaned an elbow on the book’s open pages and rested his head in his hand . . . an attitude that made the Chronicler, sitting on his stool in the shadow of Lady Mintha, writhe with scarcely suppressed fury as he considered the damage to the volume’s spine.
“You know I always make an effort,” Alistair said, grinning behind the hollows under his eyes. “Simply put a task before me and I’ll jump to it.”
“Don’t be flippant with me,” said Lady Mintha. “You know how important this is, and yet I find you here, hiding away behind these Lumé-forsaken books of yours.”
“Well, they’re not mine. They’re Uncle’s really, for all the pleasure he gets from them. Besides, Mother, I don’t quite follow what’s brought you here in such high dudgeon.”
“Why must you pretend ignorance?” Mintha wrapped her arms so tightly about her body that she became a quivering pillar of indignation. “You’ve made no effort whatsoever with the girl, and don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
“Oh.” Alistair heaved a sigh. “Leta.”
“Yes, Leta. Your bride-to-be. Granted,” Lady Mintha continued in a slightly gentler tone, “she’s an insipid little thing. I myself can scarcely get two words from her. But that in no way reduces the importance of your role, Alistair.”
Her son shrugged and, mercifully, took his elbow off the book again. “Leta’s a nice girl. Sweet.”
“Is that all you can say?” Mintha cried. “She’s been here four full months, and have you made any attempt to woo or win her?”
“Why bother?” Alistair replied, staring down at the illustrated lantern on the page. “The betrothal is set. The papers are signed. We wed next spring, come what may. She’s a fine match, and I’ll make her a good husband if I can.” His finger traced the line of the chasm opening just behind the ugly figure of Akilun. “We simply have nothing to say to each other.”
“Don’t be overconfident,” Lady Mintha said sharply, emphasizing her words by grabbing her son’s shoulder. He started under her touch, but she did not let go. “If something goes awry . . . if that little chit sends word to her father that she’s unhappy at Gaheris . . . what’s to prevent him from coming to fetch his daughter?”
“If that should happen, so be it.” Alistair felt his mother’s anger build right through her fingertips. Just then, however, he was too tired to care.