Page 11 of Winterveil

Julian was led into an elevator and up to the third floor. The corridors were lined with more modern-looking doors, a rectangular window fitted into each one. He tried to glimpse what was inside, but the guard marched him past too quickly.

He did manage to see the nameplate outside the door before he was pushed through the threshold.

DR. IVER

The headmaster’s office was furnished in the same dark wood as the rest of the building. An imposing executive desk was piled with papers in neat stacks, and a number of framed degrees were hung on the far wall. Julian squinted to try to read them. It reminded him strongly of his father’s office, a thought that occurred to him with a bolt of homesickness and shame.

With a dip of his head, the guard departed at last.

Valeran’s headmaster stared up at him. He was an older man, though he could have been anywhere between fifty and seventy-five; it was impossible for Julian to tell. His hair was still thick and white as snow. Otherwise, he was so nondescript as to be almost eerie. Julian couldn’t place the emotion on his face—if any at all.

“Julian Joyce-Young the Third,” Dr. Iver said. “That’s a weighty name.”

Julian said nothing, anticipating a rejoinder.

“You’re a good catch for Valeran.”

“You mean I won’t find anyone else from one of the last great American dynasties here? What a surprise.” Julian wasn’t exactly trying to provoke Dr. Iver, but he wasn’t trying not to, either. His back still ached from the bus ride and from carrying his own bag.

He did feel a brief flicker of disappointment when the headmaster’s expression didn’t change. “Sit,” Dr. Iver said.

Julian lowered himself into one of the leather armchairs.

“No, you won’t find anyone as blue-blooded as you,” Dr. Iver went on. “But you will find plenty of students who make your bank-breaking Exeter education and years of private tutoring seem a waste, who will make you yearn for the days of cozily memorizing Latin conjugations by the fireplace. Valeran is for soldiers. Your pedigree and that heirloom Rolex on your wrist mean nothing here.”

Instinctually, Julian glanced down at his watch, which was partially concealed beneath the cuff of his shirtsleeve. How had Dr. Iver even noticed it?

“So allow me to explain how things work,” said Dr. Iver. He folded his hands on the desk, and it was Julian’s turn to scan him for subtle giveaways. He wore a thin band around his fourth finger. Gold. “You will spend four years learning the finer points of military strategy, statecraft, tradecraft, and even a bit of tactical combat if you’re feeling adventurous, and when you graduate, you will find employment in the upper ranks of America’s defense and espionage sectors. You will serve this country dutifully until your dying days, in anonymity, winning yourself no personal glory or esteem. And that alone will be sufficient repentance for what you’ve done. Do you understand?”

Julian’s fingers curled around the arm of the chair. He wanted to curse. He wanted to scream. Mostly—humiliatingly—he wanted his father to walk through the door and deliver him away from here, with a direct deposit into Dr. Iver’s bank account and without even speaking a word.

But instead Julian gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

“Good,” Dr. Iver said. “The guards will have gone through your suitcase and removed any illicit items. Please pass them your cell phone, too. There is an academy-issued tablet and a stack of clothes by the door.”

Once again, the guard gave him no help with his things. Julian carried his own suitcase, the tablet, and the folded uniforms in a teetering pile through the courtyard and into the boys’ dormitory. It was little wonder, then, that he didn’t see his new roommate until he practically tripped over him.

“Hey!” came an indignant voice. “Look out!”

Julian managed to stumble through the threshold before all his things scattered to the floor. It was a small room, with two narrow beds, two desks, and two wardrobes, far shabbier than what he was accustomed to at Exeter. Worst of all, though, was the boy who stood before him, wearing the academy uniform and giving a dazed sort of grin.

“A roommate?” Julian choked out. “Why do I have a roommate?”

“All first years do,” the boy said. He had dark brown hair, mussed in a way that seemed intentional; sharp, intelligent brown eyes; and a prominent aquiline nose. He was not quite as tall as Julian, but he had a leanly muscular, athletic frame. “I’m Michael.”

The boy held out his hand. Julian glanced down at his cuff. It read KARCHENKO, MIKHAIL.

Julian hesitated a moment before offering his hand back. “Julian Joyce-Young the Third.”

“I know,” said Mikhail. “Nice to meet you in person, though.”

Julian withdrew his hand, a little too brusquely. “So you do get Wi-Fi here.”

“To a certain extent. Firewalls keep us from visiting most websites, including all social media platforms. But we are able to read the news.”

Great. His reputation did, indeed, precede him.

“If you want to change, I’ll give you a tour,” Mikhail said. “And explain how everything works at Valeran. I’m sure it all feels overwhelming.”