Chapter 13: The White Crown

"Summoned," Hedda said again, as if the word had a taste.

Nobody in the hall moved.

I took the proclamation out of her hand and read the last line myself.

The wax of the Provost's seal had smeared at one edge.

"She wants me on my knees at her Convocation," I said.

"She wants you in Lauremont at all," Ansgar said from the dais. "That's the part she can't do without."

"Then I'll go early, and on my feet."

Hedda was already unrolling the founders' charter from the pocket of her coat, which she apparently carried everywhere.

"Section nine," she said. "A scholar of one house may sit in the lecture halls of any other."

"Nobody can bar a Grey Thorn scholar from the White Crown's benches."

"And her master may walk her to the door," Ansgar said.

"You've read it?"

"I wrote the footnote."

Four days before Midwinter, the three of us stood at the foot of the White Crown's white steps.

The Academy sat on its hill above the river like a wedding cake left out in the frost.

Over the gate hung a golden griffin, wings spread, claws closed on nothing.

The gate porter looked at my grey wool coat and then at the letter in my hand.

"Visiting scholars swear at the threshold," he said.

"Section nine," Hedda said sweetly. "Visiting scholars do not."

He read it twice.

Behind him two Wardens in white cloaks had gone still, and both of them were looking at Ansgar's left hand.

"Dahl," said the taller one.

"Warden."

"We thought you were dead."

"People keep saying that," Ansgar said. "It's very flattering."

A page boy came running down the steps before anyone could answer.

He held out a folded note, and I recognised the Provost's hand before I broke the seal.

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