“It’s going to Cross-Costa Imports, Blatti Iynodib, Rarom third zone, Ibdassi. That’s Liso. Yes, you know. Attention Mr. Daoud Qassan. All further correspondence Damesfort, Carmody, Dameskill County, et cetera. Stop. Please be in touch with all new developments. Stop. Arrange radio call if necessary. Stop. My name. End. And if anything comes overnight—”

“I’ll forward it to Damesfort before I close the house. Or, if it comes late, I’ll bring it up.”

“Thank you.” She finally finished the whiskey, and it struck the bottom of her stomach like a depth charge.

The last train into Carmody got her to the station very late indeed. Martí met her at the bottom of the steps, looking about as beleaguered as Lillian felt.

“I’m sorry to drag you out at this time of night,” she said, surrendering her suitcase.

Martí bowed her head, less out of deference than to hide a yawn.

Like many other things, Lillian couldn’t afford a driver. But it was that or miss meetings depending on the whims of the railroad and the trolleys, both of which were still recovering from the Catwalk’s onslaught late in the Ospies’ tenure. Lillian had only taken the train tonight because Jinadh preferred to avoid it; Geddans still felt the sting of the Spice War, and some folk were sour over Gedda’s most recent entanglement with Jinadh’s natal country.

They needed the car at Damesfort anyhow: Martí was meant to fetch Stephen from school tomorrow. Lillian didn’t trust him on the train alone, after the letters they’d been getting from the head.

There’d been one on the mail tray nearly every week this term, ending with the blow that Cantrell would prefer if Stephen took some time away from school. More specifically, all of Leighberth term. Depending on his attitude, and his academic performance gauged by written and oral exams, he might return on sufferance after Equinox to finish out the year. If he failed the exam or—more likely—did not improve his manners, he was out of Cantrell with a black mark by his name, and lost his chance at many of the better secondary schools.

Run down from chasing worry’s tail, Lillian had fallen asleep by the time Martí brought them level with the front steps of Damesfort. She woke to the sound of the slamming driver’s side door and the pain of a kink in her neck. Warm light grew wider in her peripheral vision and she had to blink when she turned toward it. A familiar silhouette came into focus, already jogging down the steps.