Emery does not wait for him to put down his bag before shoving a tablet into his hands. Tentative pride places a pink blush high on his cheeks.
“Check it out.” The Sorbonne’s acceptance letter opens across the screen in a wash of elegant French formatting and Dr. Amelie Beaufort’s signature in a flourish across the bottom.
He looks up at once, but Emery is already watching him with the kind of desperate, hopeful excitement that stems from being eighteen and full of big dreams.
“Congratulations. You did this all on your own, Em.” Grayson takes the tablet properly and reads the letter through,even though he knows exactly what it will say. “Your work is outstanding. Paris is lucky to have you.”
Emery makes a strangled noise that is almost a laugh. “It was your recommendation. I know it was.”
“It helped,” Grayson says. “But your portfolio did the rest.”
Emery drops onto the nearest stool, and the grin slips around the edges. “My mom said it was cool.”
Grayson winces inwardly. “And your dad?”
Emery makes a face. “He just wanted to know who’s paying for it.”
Of course he did. Grayson leans a hip against the desk and folds his arms, tablet still in hand. He has had enough meetings with Mr. Fontaine over the years to know exactly what that question sounds like in that man’s mouth. The man had the emotional bandwidth of a turnip, but Grayson keeps that to himself.
“He didn’t even want me to apply,” Emery mutters. “You know that. He’s still on the accounting thing. Or government work. Or literally anything that doesn’t involve painting.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m trying not to get too excited till the scholarship stuff comes through, but he’s already acting like I’m asking him to fund a seven-year European grand tour.”
Grayson bites back a sigh. He knows, with the strange, quiet certainty that The Plain sometimes still gifts him, that Emery will not have to worry about tuition. The scholarship committee will come through. If by some bizarre fluke they do not, the Rhodes Foundation will. But this is not the moment to play benefactor.
“It should come soon,” he says instead. “And for what it’s worth, I think your father may be panicking for reasons that have nothing to do with your work.”
Emery blinks. “Really?”
“I think,” Grayson says dryly, “that you are about to move across the world alone, and you’re his son.”
That stops his fidgeting for a moment. “Oh. He asked for Dr. Beaufort’s number last night.”
“That is a terrible idea.”
“Right?” Emery sits up straighter, scandalized all over again. “I was like, no way, dude. I’m not giving you my future mentor’s number so you can interrogate her about god-knows-what.”
Grayson laughs. “Wise choice.”
Emery grins at him then, all his nerves stripped away for a moment. “You make this place fun, you know that? Like…” He shrugs, embarrassed by his own sincerity. “I don’t know. Bigger. Less like they’re trying to shove us all into the same weird little box.”
Something warm shifts in Grayson’s chest. He remembers too clearly what it felt like to be a new magic-user here, every eye on him and not knowing what his power would mean for him and his pack.
“That means a lot,” he says quietly.
Emery’s ears turn pink again. “Yeah, well.” He glances toward the door, hears the noise outside before Grayson does, and groans. “Your lunch is here. Sorry. I just wanted to tell you in person.”
Before Grayson can answer, Emery steps in and gives him a quick, awkward hug. It is rare enough for the senior that Grayson only gets one arm up in time to return it.
“Congratulations, Em.”
“Thanks, Professor.” Emery pulls back, all grin again. “Try not to miss me too much when I’m famous.”
“Out.”
Emery laughs and slips through the doorway just as another figure appears around the frame.
“Hei-Hei?”
His first son stands in the doorway, one hand still curled around the frame, caramel waves combed neatly back from his face, a plaid overshirt hanging open over a dark T-shirt. He has Gideon’s height and some of Gideon’s mannerisms, too. But where Gideon wears confidence like a second skin, Skye holds himself with the same quiet, deliberate stillness he had as a child, as if he learned early that silence could be both shield and language.
