3

Beaumont's expression is flat and unsmiling, though not hostile. They're much shorter than you, and they say nothing as they watch you curiously.

"There was no prep work!" Pascal exclaims. "Well, never mind. You need to be in Vercher House. And, luckily, we're all going the same way—"

"I thought our school was all about going above and beyond," says the student. "Isn't it?"

Pascal looks flustered. "Yes, yes, that's very much what Archambault's about. But let me introduce—"

"Yes," says the student, cutting him off. "I'm Noble Laurie Beaumont, of the Beaumont Financiers. You can call me Beaumont, everyone does."

Their name tickles at the back of your mind, but you cannot recall where you heard it. Beyond, of course, the Beaumont Financiers being one of the wealthiest banking companies in the world.

Beaumont shifts the satchel under their arm and holds out a hand.

As you shake their hand, Beaumont shrugs. "No, I do."

Close by, rooks caw on their way to roost. Pascal's expression is scandalized; he starts to say something, but Asher cuts him off.

"This is His Highness Prince Irad Motahhari," they snap.

Beaumont shakes back their long hair and fixes you with a hard stare. "Yes, I know," they say eventually.

Pascal turns to you, blocking Beaumont with his shoulder. "I am so sorry," he says quietly.

Beaumont nods, unsmiling. "Then I'd love to hear, Prince Irad Motahhari," they say, "what exactly are you doing here?"

Beaumont proffers their belongings. "Natural Science prep," they say. "But, yes, I understand what you meant. Studying, mostly. Developing my business skills. Since the Academy is supposed to be the best."

There's an intense glint in their dark eyes that you can't decipher.

Pascal coughs uncomfortably. "I'm sure," he says, "you'll be kind enough to show the prince and his servant to Vercher House. I have some business to attend to."

He bows low and strides away.

Next

Beaumont watches Pascal go, lip curled. "He's harmless enough," they say. "And he'll be desperate to impress you, given who you are. You've got nothing to worry about."

They extend an arm ahead.

"Shall we?" they say, and you make your way onward.

Next

Beaumont could not be a more different guide than Pascal. Where Pascal was eager to show off every detail and historical delight of the Archambault architecture, Beaumont is quiet for the whole way. That is, until they halt abruptly at a dark, hulking building blanketed with ivy.

"This is Vercher House," they tell you. "I assume your servant will share rooms with you."

That is indeed the plan; Asher nods diffidently. The prospectus advertised a spacious suite in which you'd be afforded every comfort.

Beside you, Asher tenses. "Prince Irad Motahhari," they murmur. "Look."

An intruder?

Next

A figure, dark against the ivy, is climbing steadily toward a softly-lit upper window. "A thief, maybe?" Asher whispers.

The figure yelps in surprise. Their foot slips on the foothold, and they slide unceremoniously to the ground. In the lantern light, you now have an impression of rumpled brown hair and, more importantly, an Archambault uniform.

He picks himself up and brushes down his jacket. Ineffectually, he tries to smooth his mop of hair. And then, as he gives you an apologetic grin, you recognize him. It's the Honorable Dominique de Saint Martel, the eldest son of one of your mother's family friends.

He recognizes you just as quickly, and his grin widens. "Oh! Hello, Prince Irad Motahhari," he says. "And Asher, too! Everyone's here!"

For the first time, Beaumont looks surprised. "You know each other?"

Dominique meets your eye, clearly expecting you to elaborate on the subject. From your experience, being found climbing up an ivy-covered wall, and then falling off it, is not at all out of character for Dominique. He is well known for acting first and asking questions rarely. But he's as guileless as a golden retriever.

"You could say that we know each other well," you say.

Dominique grins, and he nudges you companionably on the shoulder. "Very well indeed," he says. Out of the corner of your eye, Asher's face has frozen into what they probably hope is a casually unemotional expression.

Beaumont shrugs. "That doesn't surprise me in the slightest," they say, "considering Dominique's reputation."

"It's nice to see you again properly!" says Dominique. "It's normally always so busy at the palace events. We can spend quality time together here!"

Beaumont rolls their eyes.

Bumping into people you know is an occupational hazard, given your birth. Ever since you were young, your mother has made sure that you've been socially involved with a range of aristocrats, royals, and other members of high society. Despite Josiane being the crown princess, you're still a public figure. At social events, you've mostly been the center of attention.

Part of life in the palace was learning how to make tedious dinners sparkle, and making sure important guests were distracted from boredom or frustration. You're good at that: your mother often placed you strategically beside the less patient dignitaries.

Beaumont lets out an irritated sigh in Dominique's direction. "Can't you use the door like everyone else?"

Dominique looks sheepish. "I lost my key!"

"Marvelous," Beaumont says. They fling out an arm. "Didn't think to wait for us to arrive, didn't think to check with Degen at the lodge…the heir to the de Saint Martel name, everyone!"

Dominique bows ostentatiously. Asher stifles a laugh.

"We'll let you in," Beaumont says. "But if it happens again, I'll leave you out here."

Dominique turns to you with an imploring expression, his dark eyes very large. "And then," he says, "I'll freeze. To. Death. But Prince Irad Motahhari will take pity on me. Won't you?"

Dominique looks tragic, and Beaumont snorts. "You see?" they say. "Prince Irad Motahhari has the right idea. Anyway, come along."

Next

The interior of Vercher House is forbidding, all somber-colored wallpaper and dark, expensive paneling. A series of portraits of Archambault luminaries lines the staircase.

"Goodnight!" Dominique chirps before disappearing down the landing to the left-hand suite; Beaumont glances after him darkly.

"We're sharing this year," they say. "I don't know how I'll cope. Here's your suite."

They turn on their heel without another word, leaving you and Asher to your own devices. Asher's shoulders relax, but they eye the door with faint suspicion.

"I'll check it over before you go in," they say.