“Father’s rather furious with you,” Arrin observes.
“I hadn’t noticed,” I reply.
Anger’s still hot inside me. I’m certain it was Arrin who told Father about my seventh-place standing. Arrin who would have made a deal of it and suggested that maybe I wasn’t trying entirely hard enough, whispering my treason.
He shrugs after a moment. “I’m sure it was the same speech we’ve all heard. How he didn’t sacrifice everything to have such a lousy, useless, rotten son. Am I right?” There’s a trace of humour in his voice.
“Maybe,” I say, annoyed he’s right.