The next morning melted into a haze of yet more meetings, the first of which began at dawn and left him no time to check on the runners. Venkat’s mind buzzed with chatter—the location and placement of extra sentries; the menus for the picnic at the Lake of Lovers’ Tears and the wedding feast, including delicacies from each clan’s region so none of the royal guests felt snubbed; his own consultations with the official tailors—but once he and Nayan set foot in the workshop, he pushed all that aside.

Now that they were alone, he had to find out what, if anything, Madhu had reported to Nayan.

“I thought today was never going to end,” Venkat said as breezily as he could while lining up the dream elements he’d curated for Nayan’s latest request—grief crossed with sweetness—on the worktable. “It’s exhausting being you. How do you stand it?”

Nayan raised an eyebrow. “Well, someone must be me,” he said in a perfect deadpan, “and I am arrogant enough to believe I am best qualified to fill the position.”

Hoping his nerves didn’t show, Venkat laughed.

Nayan strolled around the table, assessing the array of elements: a jar of crystallized tears, the isolated chanting of a choir, and the honeyed but acerbic nectar from a silver crabapple. For extra sweetness, Venkat had selected a bristle from a broom the dreamer’s grandmother had passed down through the family line.

He knew he’d chosen well, and yet he held his breath.

“But you are certainly worthy of being my successor.” Nayan’s stern visage dissolved into a proud smile. “Such an eye for detail! I could not ask for a finer dreamsmith.”

“Thank you,” said Venkat, spotting his opportunity even as pride cascaded over him. “I suppose that means you want to know how my experiments are going?”

“I do, indeed.” Nayan’s eyes crinkled with mirth. “That saves me the trouble of asking.”

Venkat busied himself fetching the sofa experiment from its shelf in the treasury. Somehow, even as he got better and better at his craft, showing Nayan what he’d forged on his own time never failed to reduce his nerves to a bundle of sparking wires.

“After your success with the scissors, I am certain to be impressed,” Nayan said, all business again.

As chuffed as Venkat was with his whimsical little couch, he wasn’t sure it could meet that high bar, sky-faring or not. He had to convince Nayan he was on top of his job, not give him another reason to listen to Madhu.

With clammy palms, he offered up the sofa.

Nayan examined it with slow deliberation. His expression remained an impenetrable mask. Once he’d finished, he asked, pointedly, “Is that all?”

“What—what do you mean?” Venkat stammered.