of the Droombeld River. But he’d be far away from his father’s friends and business associates. Van Eck was a common enough name, and that far from Ketterdam, being a Van Eck wouldn’t mean being one of those Van Ecks.
His father handed him a sealed envelope and a small stack of kruge for travel money. “These are your enrollment papers, and enough money to see you to Belendt. Once you’re there, have your secretary see the bursar. An account has been opened in your name. I’ve also arranged for chaperones to travel with you on the browboat.”
Wylan’s cheeks had flooded red with humiliation. “I can get to Belendt.”
“You’ve never traveled outside Ketterdam on your own, and this is not the time to start. Miggson and Prior have business to see to for me in Belendt. They’ll escort you there and ensure that you’re successfully situated. Understood?”
Wylan understood. He was unfit to even board a boat out of the city by himself.
But things would be different in Belendt. He packed a small suitcase with a change of clothes and the few things he would need before his trunks arrived at the school, along with his favorite pieces of sheet music. If he could read letters as well as he read a tablature, he’d have no problems at all. When his father had stopped reading to him, music had given him new stories, ones that unfolded from his fingers, that he could write himself into with every played note. He tucked his flute into his satchel, in case he wanted to practice on the trip.
His goodbye to Alys had been brief and awkward. She was a nice girl, but that was the whole problem—she was only a few years older than Wylan. He wasn’t sure how his father could walk down the street beside her without shame. But Alys didn’t seem to mind, maybe because around her, his father became the man Wylan remembered from his childhood—kind, generous, patient.
Even now, Wylan could not name the specific moment when he knew his father had given up on him. The change had been slow. Jan Van Eck’s patience had worn quietly away like gold plate over cruder metal, and when it was gone, it was as if his father had become someone else entirely, someone with far less luster.
“I wanted to say goodbye and wish you well,” Wylan said to Alys. She had been seated in her parlor, her terrier dozing at her feet.
“Are you going away?” she asked, looking up from her sewing and noticing his bag. She was hemming curtains. Kerch women—even the wealthy ones—didn’t bother with anything as frivolous as embroidery or needlepoint. Ghezen was better served by tasks that benefited the household.
“I’ll be traveling to the music school at Belendt.”
“Oh, how wonderful!” Alys had cried. “I miss the country so much. You’ll be so glad of the fresh air, and you’re sure to make excellent friends.” She’d set down her needle and kissed both his cheeks. “Will you come back for the holidays?”
“Perhaps,” Wylan said, though he knew he wouldn’t. His father wanted him to disappear, so he would disappear.
“We’ll make gingerbread then,” Alys said. “You will tell me all your adventures, and soon we’ll have a new friend to play with.” She patted her belly with a happy smile.
It had taken Wylan a moment to understand what she meant, and then he’d just stood there, clutching his suitcase, nodding his head, smiling mechanically as Alys talked about their holiday plans. Alys was pregnant. That was why his father was sending him away. Jan Van Eck was to have another heir, a proper heir. Wylan had become expendable. He would vanish from the city, take up occupation elsewhere. Time would pass and no one would raise a brow when Alys’ child was groomed to be the head of the Van Eck empire. As long as it takes people to forget I had a son. That hadn’t been an idle insult.
Miggson and Prior arrived at eight bells to see Wylan to the boat. No one came to say a last goodbye, and when he’d walked past his father’s office, the door was closed. Wylan refused to knock and plead for a scrap of affection like Alys’ terrier begging for treats.
His father’s men wore the dark suits favored by merchants and said little to Wylan on the walk over to the dock. They purchased tickets for the Belendt line, and once they were aboard the boat, Miggson had buried his head in