Afraid that he might answer, Cyril opened the door behind him. “Goodnight,” he said, and left Aristide to wonder.

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

Aristide and Daoud left early, and if Lillian thought any of her relief had shown she would have been mortified. But she had been trained almost her entire life to hide emotions like that, and so instead of embarrassment, she only felt privately ashamed.

The rest of her brief break from work passed in a well-fed blur, and suddenly it was time to return to the city. The family’s last night in Damesfort found them in the drawing room: Lillian with her stocking feet on Jinadh’s lap and the evening edition of the Clarion across her own. She had given the ciphers to Jinadh, who was frowning over the crossword with his pen against his lip. Ink had left a spot there, like a freckle. Stephen—miraculously—was buried in a book with a pad of paper next to him, studiously copying down chemistry notes. The wireless played low, music and advertisements mingling with the soft sounds of the fire.

Cyril had disappeared after dinner. He’d stayed cagey and quiet in the days after Solstice, keeping mostly to himself.

She didn’t know what to do for him. And she didn’t know what to do with him. It might be possible to quietly keep him at Damesfort through the election; it didn’t seem likely he would go into the village. The only tricky matter was the staff. She trusted Magnusson, and he would have impressed upon the rest of them a strong need for discretion. But would they abide by his authority? And how loyal would they be to an employer they had only known six months, whose budget they understood to be somewhat strained? An employer who might let them go at the end of the season to cut costs?

It would be better to get Cyril out of her house; out of the country. Some peaceful, quiet place where he could calm down. Possibly a retreat, or sanatorium. Somewhere they could help him with whatever made him jump at loud sounds and slip food into his pockets. She’d seen him doing that at meals, when he thought no one was watching, and later noticed grease spots on his jacket.

There were some places in Ibet that might do, or Suldatia. Mountains and fresh air and no-nonsense nurses. She was leery of alienists as a general rule, but perhaps in Cyril’s case psychological intervention might be helpful.

When she would have time to take care of it all, and how she would pay for it once she had … She sighed into her paper and turned the page.

“‘Coming home sans quarry,’” said Jinadh. “Eight letters. Starts with O, sixth letter X.”

“Oh, you know I’m rubbish at these things.” But she reached for it anyway, to look.