“I try not to think highly of myself.”
“Would you say you have low self-esteem?” he asked.
“Aren’t you supposed to be the one telling me of my greatest weaknesses? Am I to do your job for you?” The remark slipped out before Wren could stop it.
The ambassador chuckled. “You are feistier than your appearance lets on. Others must underestimate you quite often. Do you use that to your advantage?”
Wren searched for an answer, but it was difficult to focus amongst the noise of the timepieces and Blossom’s nervousness badgering her.
“You don’t need to answer. If you were to lie, it would do neither of us much good. Not yourself especially, because I’d be able to tell.”
Wren frowned at his words. She did not enjoy mind games. After two weeks at sea, plagued by the loss of her brother and a severe lack of sleep, she was in ill temper. Acting on her emotions would not help her maintain the image she needed topresent, though, so she did her best to gather her wits. For the sake of her brother.
“In card games,” Wren finally answered. “Men often underestimate me during parlor games, and I am able to defeat them.”
Her statement was rewarded with another feline grin.
“Interesting.” The ambassador stood and turned to the overflowing bookshelves behind him. “Do you like poetry, Lady Kalyxi?”
Wren’s throat tightened at the memory of the poem her brother left for her.
“I find it tolerable,” she replied. “I have not had much time for poetry, as I have been training under a master historian. The story of the Wild Holm takes up most of my reading hours.”
“What about novels? Your brother told me you were a writer. Do you have a favorite novel?” he asked with his back turned.
“I am afraid I don’t read much fiction, Ambassador.”
“How fascinating, since I rarely read a history book that doesn’t possess an element of fiction in it. Do you believe all history to be fact?”
Wren drew in a breath and tried to soothe her frayed nerves. The ambassador wanted to trap her, but she didn’t know why. Could such questions truly pertain to her class schedule?
“History is written by man, therefore it cannot be inerrant. However, I do endeavor to believe the best of my predecessors.”
“Optimism is a fine quality, so long as it doesn’t lead to delusion.”
Wren wanted to comment that he worked in a room full of clocks and dressed as though he could not see color. He was closer to delusion than she, to be sure.
“I don’t fancy myself an optimist.”
The ambassador laughed. “Of course not. You are much too cynical to be an optimist, dear.” He pulled down a sage greentome with a dusty spine. “I’d like to give you this. It’s a wonderful little story about a man lost at sea.”
Wren accepted the book. It was far from little, as it sat heavy in her palms. The cover was faded, but she made out the title. Seawanderer.
“By Kylerian Downs,” she murmured as she traced the author’s name. The same as that of the poem Heron had directed her to.
“Have you read any of his work? He is a profound poet. He only ever wrote one novel, and it’s the one you’re holding. Magnificent storytelling. I think you will find it rather rapturing.”
“Why do you want me to have this?” Wren asked, her confusion evident.
The ambassador sat in his seat again.
“I think you will enjoy it, that’s all.” He tipped his head to the right. “Do you think every action has an agenda behind it?”
Wren’s composure ran out like sand in an hourglass.
“I do when it is by a man such as yourself. You seem to thrive on the emotional turmoil you inspire.” She felt his satisfaction with every poke and prod he made.
“How similar you and your brother are at times,” he commented, stealing her breath once more. “Yet how different, too.”
