“Oh, so now I’m an arrogant ass, too?”

“Of course,” she said, and her smile grew deep enough to reveal that dimple again. “A fiercely smart, ridiculously brave one. My favorite kind. Now, take some of these pastries away before I eat all of them and make myself sick!”

He took most of the boxes with him and went down three flights. He’d never heard the name, but Scholar Prakesh’s offices took up an impressive expanse, and when Jess pressed the bell to the side, he was surprised to find the door opened not by Dario, but by an elderly woman in a violently pink sari with gold trim at the edges under her black Scholar’s robe. “Scholar Prakesh?” he asked, and bowed to her. She smiled and gave him a slight nod. “Please forgive me for disturbing you. Do you like almond pastries?”

She watched his face intently as he spoke, and to his surprise, began to move her hands in fluid, rapid motions. He recognized it, though he didn’t speak it: sign language. He tried to look uncomprehending without seeming stupid, and must have failed, because she sighed and clapped her hands.

As if she’d summoned him out of thin air, Dario Santiago appeared from a side room. He raised his eyebrows when he saw Jess and the pastry boxes. Scholar Prakesh repeated her gestures, and Dario watched her hands, then said, “Scholar Prakesh says, ‘Young man, your charm is wasted on me, but your pastries are not. You are . . . ?’”

He knew enough to address his words to the Scholar and not to her translator, and bowed to her. “Jess Brightwell, Scholar, a soldier in the High Garda. I am very honored to meet you.”

Dario watched the exchange that followed and spoke for her again. “‘That is only because you do not know me yet, of course. Come in. I expect you are here to see my exasperated young assistant.’” Dario laughed. “She means me.”

“I am, Scholar. Thank you.”

Prakesh signed again. “You might have to dig him free of the work I’ve piled on him this morning. Try not to listen to his complaints.” She reached for the boxes, and the conversation between them was clearly over. She moved with impatient speed back to her desk, leaving him and Dario to sort things out. It gave Jess a moment to take in Scholar Prakesh’s office. If Khalila’s room had been stacked with papers and books, this one had the feeling of order, but ancient layers of it, built one atop another. Chalkboards lined the room, filled with jottings and notes in tiny, precise writing, some of it written in a rounded, beautiful language he didn’t recognize. It was an oddly restful place, and, best of all, it was steeped in the crisp, autumnal scent of books. I just want to take this all in, Jess thought. It seemed like . . . home.

Dario gestured impatiently for him to follow, and Jess left home behind. He trailed Dario to the door of the office on the left. Dario sat down behind a desk, leaned back, and folded his arms. “What are you doing here, Brightwell?” Unlike Khalila, Dario seemed to have changed quite a bit. He’d put on a little muscle, and cultivated a Spanish-style shadow of beard that made him seem older. Even a little wiser. His hair had grown longer, too.