The Auber salon was loud with the wrong kind of quiet, the sort that filled a room when people who talked for a living had decided there was nothing worth saying out loud.
Crane received him at the door himself, which he had never once done before.
"Tobian." Crane's voice was as soft and even as ever, and his coat was pressed to a line sharp enough to cut bread. "You look tired. I hope the scholarship has not started to eat you."
"It eats everyone eventually," said Alistair. "I only hope to be a small meal, and a dry one at that."
Crane laughed pleasantly, yet the laugh did not reach anywhere near his eyes.
They sat by the tall windows, and wine came. For the better part of an hour Crane talked about nothing, and Alistair let him, since the whole point of the evening was to hold up a mirror and see what the Wreath was frowning at.
Crane was frowning at the border, though he never once named it.
