The hotel room door clicked shut behind the last of the men, and suddenly the small space felt like it had shrunk to the size of a confessional. Thomas was still flat on his back on the bed, shoes kicked off, staring at the ceiling and trying to process the whirlwind week, when the knock came. Iona glanced up from her textbooks, arched an eyebrow at him, and called out, “It’s open.”

  In they came like a tribunal in tailored suits.

  Mickelson led, tie already loosened, grinning the way a cat grins at a cornered mouse. Gold followed, immaculate as ever, cufflinks flashing. Isaac Jacob loomed behind them, broad and quiet, with two older members Thomas only vaguely recognized from the lodge hallway—Brother Reynolds and Brother Park, both past masters who looked like they’d been carved out of oak and disapproval.

  Mickelson didn’t waste time.

  “Evening, gentlemen…and Miss Iona.” He raised an imaginary glass. “Does anyone else in this room feel like this young punk can’t help himself but try to make the rest of us look bad?”

  A chorus rumbled back, Iona included, dry and amused: “Here, here.”

  Thomas sat up slowly, heart already doing double-time.

  Isaac Jacob crooked a finger. “On your feet, candidate. Let’s have a proper look at you.”

  Thomas stood. The room felt ten degrees warmer.

  Gold shook his head, almost fondly. “One month. Thirty-one days since we slipped that first medallion around your neck. One month since I had to drag you to my shop because you didn’t own a single decent suit for Installation Night.”

  Mickelson circled him like a sergeant inspecting a recruit. “And now here he is—probationary member, walking into the Conclave hotel like he belongs. Question is, gentlemen… what exactly are we going to do with him?”

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  Isaac Jacob cracked his knuckles theatrically. “My vote’s still stringing him up by the big toes until he cools off. But certain parties have plans for him this weekend, so maybe we save that for Sunday.”

  Gold snorted. “Besides, if he’s dangling upside down, he can’t very well swing by the shop tomorrow, and I’ve got a new navy pinstripe with his name on it.”

  The two older brethren just watched, arms folded, letting the younger lions prowl.

  Isaac Jacob spread his hands. “So. Suggestions?”

  Mickelson’s eyes lit up with pure mischief. “I say we start gentle. Trial by table manners. The boy could use a refresher in dining etiquette before the formal banquet tomorrow night.”

  Before Thomas could protest—or even decide if protest was wise—Mickelson grabbed his hand in an iron grip, hauled him to his feet, and slung a companionable arm around his shoulders.

  “Come along, Brother Thomas. The Craft is hungry, and so, apparently, are you.”

  They marched him out of the room like a prisoner who’d just been granted a last meal he didn’t know he’d asked for.

  Down in the hotel’s oak-paneled restaurant, white tablecloths and heavy silver gleamed under low chandeliers. The ma?tre d’ took one look at the group—five past masters and one very nervous probationary member—and seated them immediately at a round table in the corner.

  As soon as bread appeared, Gold slid a folded sheet of heavy cream paper across to Thomas.

  “Your weekend itinerary, courtesy of the Conclave planning committee,” he said. “Memorize it. Live it. Love it.”

  Thomas unfolded it.

  It was a lest of test. Both psychological don educational development.

  Then Shabbat services

  Saturday afternoon would be the Mendelson arival.

  Remember if you need a break during the test.

  Any time it gets too much, text the word “pinstripe.” One of us will extract you to the shop for coffee and sanity.

  Mickelson leaned over, tapped the paper. “See? We’re not completely unreasonable.”

  Isaac Jacob raised his water glass, eyes glinting. “To Brother Thomas—who in one month has managed to terrify half the jurisdiction and charm the other half. May the weekend be long, instructive, and only mildly humiliating.”

  They all drank.

  Thomas exhaled, a small laugh escaping despite himself. He lifted his own glass.

  “To the brethren,” he said, voice steadier than he felt. “Thanks for not hanging me by my toes. Yet.”

  Mickelson grinned wide enough to show teeth.

  “Yet,” he echoed cheerfully.

  And under the table, Gold nudged Thomas’s knee with his own—just a quick, reassuring bump that said: You’re one of us now, kid. Try to enjoy the ride.

  The first course arrived. The trial had officially begun.