from the Royal Academy of Learning.”
“Of course,” said the nearest, a fat man whose wide face burst into a large smile. “Your father told us you would be returning today. I’m surprised he didn’t declare the dinner to be in your honour.”
“Thomas, this is Frederick Needham, head of the weaver’s guild.”
“A pleasure,” Thomas shook the man’s hand.
“I hadn’t expected you to look so civilized,” said a second man who seemed to have been the source for Needham’s extra weight, as he had so little of his own. “Why, when my boy came back from the Academy, he was thread-bare, thin as a rake, and talking philosophical nonsense for hours on end.”
“Glen Tripoli,” his mother interjected. “Master of Horse. He supplies the animals for our carts.”
“Pleased, I’m sure.”
The rest of the introductions went by in a blur. Thomas missed most of the names, but did his best to be polite. All of them asked about the Academy, and he did his best to answer their questions, talking about his classes, his friends, and the city itself. The conversation eventually switched back to merchant matters and Thomas’s mind began to drift. His father had ideas about Thomas working for one of the merchant houses when he was done his study of the law, but the more Thomas listened to them talk, the less likely it seemed.
One more thing to disappoint him with, thought Thomas. He immediately quashed the thought. Self-pity wasn’t going to help him figure out what was going on. He could indulge in it later. Say, while I’m working at the forge with George.
That thought brought a smile—a cynical smile, but a smile nonetheless—to his face, and he wore it as he circulated the room.
Thomas’s mother went back and forth between the sitting room and kitchen, talking to the guests one moment and directing the cooks and the servants the next. Neal circulated through the room, making certain everyone’s drinks stayed full and chatting with the various merchants and suppliers. Thomas watched them in moments between conversations. Both were very tense, though both were covering it up well enough that none of the guests noticed it. Thomas was sure it had to do with his sudden departure the day before, but knew there was no way to take either of them aside to find out. Both were too busy being hosts. Instead, Thomas passed his time pretending to be interested in the other men’s conversations and anxiously awaiting his father’s arrival.
It was very unlike John Flarety to not already be in attendance. Even in his worst mood, Thomas’s father normally wouldn’t dream of leaving his guests alone for any length of time. This day, though, he was nowhere to be seen.
It was only when his mother announced dinner that John Flarety stepped into the room. He came through the hall door, and had the slightly rumpled look of a man who had been working at a desk. His clothes were even finer than Thomas’s, though the colours were sober, as befitted a wealthy merchant. Thomas expected him to smile at his guests, at least. Instead, his expression was flat, and void of emotion. His eyes went over his guests as though they were market-place cattle. He walked into the room, nodding briefly at his wife. For a moment Thomas thought his mother was going to snap at his father, but she held her tongue. John Flarety moved through the room, shaking hands and muttering words of greeting until he came to a stop in front of Thomas.
Thomas suddenly realized how desperately he was hoping his father would welcome him; that he would show some of the pride he had put in his letters. He found himself standing straighter, holding his head high.
John Flarety surveyed his son from head to foot as if calculating the worth of a measure of cloth. At length, he nodded. His look, when he met Thomas’s gaze, was cold and hard. Thomas could feel his stomach sinking and his hopes for a welcome fading as he stared into his father’s eyes.
“Well,”
“Of course,” said the nearest, a fat man whose wide face burst into a large smile. “Your father told us you would be returning today. I’m surprised he didn’t declare the dinner to be in your honour.”
“Thomas, this is Frederick Needham, head of the weaver’s guild.”
“A pleasure,” Thomas shook the man’s hand.
“I hadn’t expected you to look so civilized,” said a second man who seemed to have been the source for Needham’s extra weight, as he had so little of his own. “Why, when my boy came back from the Academy, he was thread-bare, thin as a rake, and talking philosophical nonsense for hours on end.”
“Glen Tripoli,” his mother interjected. “Master of Horse. He supplies the animals for our carts.”
“Pleased, I’m sure.”
The rest of the introductions went by in a blur. Thomas missed most of the names, but did his best to be polite. All of them asked about the Academy, and he did his best to answer their questions, talking about his classes, his friends, and the city itself. The conversation eventually switched back to merchant matters and Thomas’s mind began to drift. His father had ideas about Thomas working for one of the merchant houses when he was done his study of the law, but the more Thomas listened to them talk, the less likely it seemed.
One more thing to disappoint him with, thought Thomas. He immediately quashed the thought. Self-pity wasn’t going to help him figure out what was going on. He could indulge in it later. Say, while I’m working at the forge with George.
That thought brought a smile—a cynical smile, but a smile nonetheless—to his face, and he wore it as he circulated the room.
Thomas’s mother went back and forth between the sitting room and kitchen, talking to the guests one moment and directing the cooks and the servants the next. Neal circulated through the room, making certain everyone’s drinks stayed full and chatting with the various merchants and suppliers. Thomas watched them in moments between conversations. Both were very tense, though both were covering it up well enough that none of the guests noticed it. Thomas was sure it had to do with his sudden departure the day before, but knew there was no way to take either of them aside to find out. Both were too busy being hosts. Instead, Thomas passed his time pretending to be interested in the other men’s conversations and anxiously awaiting his father’s arrival.
It was very unlike John Flarety to not already be in attendance. Even in his worst mood, Thomas’s father normally wouldn’t dream of leaving his guests alone for any length of time. This day, though, he was nowhere to be seen.
It was only when his mother announced dinner that John Flarety stepped into the room. He came through the hall door, and had the slightly rumpled look of a man who had been working at a desk. His clothes were even finer than Thomas’s, though the colours were sober, as befitted a wealthy merchant. Thomas expected him to smile at his guests, at least. Instead, his expression was flat, and void of emotion. His eyes went over his guests as though they were market-place cattle. He walked into the room, nodding briefly at his wife. For a moment Thomas thought his mother was going to snap at his father, but she held her tongue. John Flarety moved through the room, shaking hands and muttering words of greeting until he came to a stop in front of Thomas.
Thomas suddenly realized how desperately he was hoping his father would welcome him; that he would show some of the pride he had put in his letters. He found himself standing straighter, holding his head high.
John Flarety surveyed his son from head to foot as if calculating the worth of a measure of cloth. At length, he nodded. His look, when he met Thomas’s gaze, was cold and hard. Thomas could feel his stomach sinking and his hopes for a welcome fading as he stared into his father’s eyes.
“Well,”
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