“Will get it back eventually, I’m sure.” The man’s face was impassive, but it wasn’t difficult to guess what was going through his head.Spoiled brat. Good-for-nothing. Bastard grandson.He didn’t have to say it out loud.
Yiran knew.
The pin on the man’s jacket glinted. An Exorcist. Few Exorcists lived to a ripe old age and most stayed with the Guild until injury or death caught up with them. But there were some who left earlier to work for the city’s upper crust as part of their security detail. Yiran found them to be tenacious babysitters.
He glanced over his shoulder.
Theo had lain down for a nap. Eyes locked on his phone, Sweets waved a vague farewell.
Irritation scratched at Yiran’s throat. As sons of some of the city’s most influential people, they were precious too. Just not in the way thatconstrained their lives. He was envious of them, and he hated that.
He turned to the man in the black suit. “Let’s go, Robert. The old man won’t be happy if I’m late.”
“Appreciate the favor, Robert.” Yiran slammed the car door shut.
Traffic turned out to be clear and they had made good time, and maybe the man wasn’t that bad after all. He’d agreed to stop at the gates to the estate instead of the front door—as long as Yiran promised to go to the study right after he cleaned up. A direct summons from his grandfather meant Yiran was in trouble, and he wanted time to clear his head.
Old ginkgo trees lined the winding driveway. They were silent sentinels, watching as Yiran made his way up to the mansion. Their leaves had turned with the season, and the path was a glorious explosion of gold and yellow. It reminded Yiran of the day he first arrived.
It had been a crisp autumn morning, the sun warm and gentle on his face. He was barely six years old, clinging onto his mother’s legs, hiding his face behind her skirt. He was a sickly thing then, shy and small for his age. Catnip for bullies at school.
Yiran’s breath had caught at the sight of Song Mansion, and he fell desperately in love with it. He’d stared in wonder at the terra-cotta tiles on its curved roofs, the jagged stones in the quadrangle courtyard in the center of the cluster of buildings, made smooth in places by footsteps.
The first thing he’d noticed inside the house were the doors. There were so many of them, mostly locked. Intricately carved with symbols and fantastical animals and figures, they felt like portals to different worlds. It was the first time the wordmagicrang loud and clear in Yiran’s head. He’d thought he was the luckiest boy in the world when his mother told him thatthiswas where he would be living from that day on.
Then she left and he never saw her again. And in time, he understood that a house could never love him back.
Now, Yiran dropped his bag onto his bed, splashed some cold water onto his face, and changed out of his school uniform into something fresh.Made sense to present his cleanest self since his best wasn’t good enough.
Minutes later, he was standing outside his grandfather’s study, one hand raised and the other straightening his shirt. His heart was starting to pound.
He knocked. Two quick raps, the way he’d been trained to do.
His grandfather’s voice trailed out. “Come in.”
Yiran exhaled through his mouth and twisted the doorknob.
Once inside, he bowed low. “Zufu.”
Despite his age, Song Wei was an imposing man. His wide shoulders showed no signs of hunching, and his stride was firm and purposeful when he got up from his rosewood chair and walked over. Trimmed neatly at the sides, his hair was a regal mix of black and silver, and his eyes were keen as they took in his grandson’s appearance. Leisurely, he circled Yiran like an eagle setting its sights on prey.
Yiran resisted the urge to fidget.
“Commissioner Senai called earlier. Apparently, you’ve broken the traffic laws. Again. That makes it five times in two months that the Commissioner himself had to step in to clean up your mess.”
Another circle.
“And now,Iowe the man because he has to make sure thatyoudon’t have to appear in front of a judge in court.”
Another damned circle.
“You should know better.”
Yiran stared at his feet. His socks peeked out from under his house slippers. The socks used to be white. Now they were a shoddy gray, scuffed at the heels with little tears in the fabric. He should have put on a different pair before coming here.
“Never forget that you are a Song,” his grandfather said. “Whatever you do or don’t do will always be tied to our family and the Guild. Have you seen the headlines lately? Do you know what people are saying about us? How many times have I told you the Guild’s status is only secure because we provide something people need? We pay for this dearly, sacrificing ourlives so that everyone else—everyone who is weak—can be safe. What will happen if they decide we’re no longer doing our jobs well? That we’re redundant? Or worse, that we aredangerous?”
His grandfather spoke softly. Yiran wished the old man would raise his voice, that he would shout at Yiran and get it over with. But that wasn’t his grandfather’s style. Song Wei knew the power of the quiet before a storm, the unsettling anticipation of what was to come.
