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My father exits first, and I straighten, suddenly realizing my wristwatch needs a good polish.

“Have a good day, Mr. Wexton,” Maei says, offering my father his coat and hat. He snatches his things, says nothing to her, and instead turns to me.

“So this is how we interact now?”

Dirt has somehow wedged itself in the rimmed crevice of my watch, and no manner of picking is getting it out.

“You’ve changed,” he goes on. “Since going to Chateau Soleil as Ward. I hardly noticed it at first, but it’s glaring now that Darragh Marionne’s poisoned you with weak values.”

Anger flickers in me. I count the incomplete set of pins at his chest. Five, not six. I stroke my loyalty pin—the one he doesn’t have—and his nostrils flare. He isn’t worth a response.

“Or is this new attitude about that girl?”

I whip out the fire dagger wedged in my waist belt and my father flinches. Then I keep picking at the stubborn dirt in the seam of my watch. “You should say thank you to Maei for your coat and hat.”

He scowls. “You will need me one day, son.”

“Yes, to follow orders. Get back to your hiatus and be sure to notify Maei when you arrive home.”

Before he can fire off a response, the Headmistresses exit in a barrage of chatter. I slip inside the office and shut the door. The Dragunhead is a spindly, thin man with long gray hair in fraying waves down his back. He sits at his desk, bony hands steepled. The fine trim of his coat, bearing colors and symbols from each House, and the gleam of the stone in his brotherhood ring sharply contrast with his glum posture. With the Headmistresses gone, the sternness of the Dragunhead’s dark gray eyes softens.

“A day of grave news, I’m afraid.” He meets my eyes. “But what about you, son? Is everything alright? You’ve mentioned before that you and your father didn’t get along, but…” He lights a roll of peckle leaf and takes a puff. “Are things getting out of hand?”

The knot in me tightens. I’m not here to talk about my father. “He is a leech in our Order. He just happens to have a powerful sister.” I sit in one of the open chairs at the Dragunhead’s desk.

“He is also your father. He’s served the brotherhood for decades. Some might say he paved the way for you to rise quickly and shine so much. He, not your aunt, gave you your endorsement.”

“Because I was the best candidate.”

The corner of the Dragunhead’s lip curls up. He takes another puff.

“And it makes him look good. I’m not going to pretend to condone his self-interested behavior. He doesn’t serve this Order; he serves himself. And that doesn’t work for me.” Admitting the truth unravels the knot I’ve become, and I sit up taller. “I had his endorsement, but if I were bad at the job, you wouldn’t have me here, giving me more responsibility. I’ve shown you time and again who I am. That is why you keep me here. Sir.”

He considers me; his crooked smile unfurls something warm in my chest. He pulls out a small velvet box from his desk. “Before we go on, let me hear this urgent news.”

I tell him everything: how during the raid I felt my brother and Quell, but when it was finished, the remnants of the trace were gone. “They are tracking the Sphere aggressively. And I’m worried that they’re very close.”

“Why her?”

I swallow. “What do you mean?”

“Why is your brother tracking the Sphere with Darragh Marionne’s granddaughter?”

Because she has bound to toushana.

I shift in my seat, and the memory of Quell’s dagger slamming into her ribs plays on repeat like a broken record in my head. It’s stolen my sleep for months. And yet…I haven’t been able to form the words. To say what she’s done aloud to anyone. Rumors swarming about Darragh Marionne’s most recent Cotillion have made their way to the Dragunhead’s ears, but he’s dismissed them as just that, because the stories are conflicting. And I haven’t said anything to the contrary. My neck breaks out in a cold sweat.

“Jordan?”

“I’m not sure.” The lie stings and the shame burns. Maybe I am my father’s son.

“If the Council is right about their suspicions,” he goes on, “Darragh Marionne has attached her graduates to her House with a tether.”

“That’s what Quell wanted everyone at Cotillion to believe.”

“Some old, perverted strain of dark tracer magic, sounds like.”

“Darragh Marionne is squarely Sfentian, sir. That House doesn’t know the first thing about dark magic.”