his windowsill.
'Hey, Perrin Alt, Lord Silverdun!'
Perrin looks up from his studies, scrutinizing the sprite. 'I'm not Lord Silverdun, foolish sprite,' he says. 'That's my father.'
'Well good news!' shouts the sprite. 'You are now! Your father's dead!'
Perrin grabs the thing around its waist. 'What? What are you talking about?'
The sprite blanches. 'Aw, shucks. I was hoping you were one of those guys who didn't like his dad and was going to be happy to find out he was thrown from his horse and killed instantly. Then you'd probably want to offer me candy!'
Perrin throws the sprite at the wall, but it veers off and lands on top of a bookcase. 'Hey, it wasn't my fault. Sheesh.'
'Get out of here!' shouts Perrin.
The sprite pauses at the window. 'So ... where are we on the candy issue?'
The next day a carriage arrives to take Perrin back to Oarsbridge Manor, where his father is to be buried in the family plot. Mother is waiting for him at the front door. She embraces him, and he lets her. Father's body is laid out in the parlor, on the carved wooden bier that has been in the family for hundreds of years.
Perrin feels almost nothing when he sees his father. He examines his emotions carefully, and can come up with nothing other than a bland annoyance at having been summoned away from school during exams.
Mother is standing in the doorway, watching him. 'Whatever you're feeling is all right,' she says.
'I don't feel anything,' says Perrin.
'That's all right, too.'
'Everyone always tells me that he was a great man, a great lawmaker,' he says. 'I never really paid that much attention to his career.'
'He never paid that much attention to you, either.'
'He was extremely cordial.'
Mother laughs, and raises her hand to stifle it. 'I suppose he was, at that.'
The funeral is well attended-seemingly by every member of Corpus, both lord and guildsman alike-and goes on for hours. It is dusk by the time the last statesman completes his encomium and sits. Perrin watches his father go into the ground, and suddenly he is filled with regret. He squeezes his mother's hand, and she squeezes back. She sees his tears and seems to understand them, even though he himself does not.
Afterward, Perrin's uncles Bresun and Marin take him aside. Bresun is father's twin brother, the younger by ten minutes, and Marin is much younger, the child of Grandfather's second wife.
'My deepest condolences ... Lord Silverdun,' says Bresun, emphasizing the 'Lord.'
'Thank you,' says Perrin. He's known that the title would someday be his, of course, but he'd assumed that it would be many years in the future. 'It's all a bit much. I confess I am somewhat overwhelmed.'
'And who could blame you?' says Bresun. 'Title is a great obligation, and not one to be taken up lightly.'
Perrin nods. He has never liked Bresun.
'Since you're not yet of age, you'll need to appoint an overseer for the estate,' Bresun continues. 'I will, of course, be more than happy to assume that role.'
Marin smiles weakly. 'It's a fine idea, I think.'
'Thank you,' says Perrin. 'I will consider your offer.'
This is not the response Bresun wants. 'I can assure you, son, that there is no one better acquainted with your father's affairs than I.'
'Fine,' says Perrin, suddenly not caring. 'I accept.'
Over the next few days, Perrin spends most of his time with a quill in his hand: penning thank-you notes to the many attendees of the funeral and signing a never-ending flood of documents for the solicitors. He falls asleep at his father's desk and is woken in the early morning by his mother's touch on his shoulder.
'Come, Perrin,' she says. 'There is something I want to discuss with you.'
They walk out the south entrance, onto the lawns where Perrin played as a boy, and down the grass to the row of peach trees. The trees are in bloom, and they smell sweet and full.
They pass through the small gate set in the wall and continue down the
