"The trick," said the boy to Nora's left, "is to never look impressed."He was human. She could tell by the way he'd been reading the room since they sat down, Blond, a little anxious around the eyes, doing a decent job of hiding it. He'd chosen the seat beside her with the specific energy of someone who wanted an ally before the room decided what they were."Even when you're impressed?" Nora said."Especially then." He adjusted the collar of his shirt. "Looking impressed tells them where the ceiling is. You know, where they've got you." He glanced at her sideways. "Marcus Hale. Legacy admit. My father attended twenty years ago.""Nora Ashby. Scholarship."Something in his expression recalibrated quickly, subtly, the way people recalibrated when they realized they'd misjudged the weight of something. "Harwick?""Yes.""There are two of those per year." He paused. "I've been preparing for this for eight months and you're telling me you got in on translation work.""Ancient linguistics,
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