The oak logs blazed in the fireplace, crackling softly as they drove the chill from the study.
Alistair stood in the corner, feeling that he was wasting his time.
Was Father giving this Veylin fellow a little too much credit?
He was only a minor noble holding out for the best offer on his arcane art. Even Lyman Klein himself would have to show the utmost respect before Father.
He instinctively looked at his younger brother.
Tristan stood beside the fireplace, its light falling across his profile and bathing him in a soft glow.
His brother had changed.
He still had the same slight build and the same expressionless face, yet he gave off an entirely different impression.
It seemed that, though his brother refused to admit it, bloodlines really could influence a person.
Alistair snorted inwardly. Perhaps that was why his father was taking this so seriously.
A knock came at the door.
"My lord Marquis, Baron Klein has arrived," came the old butler's voice from outside.
"Let him in."
The Marquis rose.
Alistair turned his gaze toward the door.
He had imagined any number of possibilities-a sharp-eyed opportunist with a gaunt face, perhaps, or a lavishly dressed, arrogant nouveau riche noble.
The door opened.
A young man walked in.
He wore a plain linen researcher's robe and had short black hair. He looked several years younger than Alistair.
He wore no elaborate accessories and looked like a librarian working at the Royal Library.
This was the man who had cured Tristan and made Father take him so seriously?
Alistair felt a surge of disappointment.
Veylin entered the study and bowed slightly to the Marquis.
It was a courtesy exchanged between scholars, not the bow a lesser noble offered a higher-ranking one.
Marquis Lorenzo nodded in acknowledgment and gestured