In the drawing room, the marshal sat in the wingback chair he had once thought of as his mother’s. She couldn’t have known how fitting her choice was. Cyril had received punishments from that chair too many times in his youth. The indiscretions had been somewhat smaller, then.

Her escorts, Jem and Paley, stood to each side of the fireplace. They turned at the sound of the opening door, and snapped to sloppy attention.

Jinadh sat forward on the sofa, back straight, at an angle to the woman who had come to take Cyril away. There was a silver pot between them, on a tray.

“Hello,” said the marshal, setting aside a steaming cup.

Of course Lillian had served her coffee.

His sister made an entrance then, trailing cold air on her open coat. “There you are,” she said. And then, to the marshal: “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Oh, for Queen’s sake,” said Cyril. “Let’s not do polite conversation.”

The marshal’s ironic smile made him almost like her. “Cyril DePaul,” she said, rising from the chair. His mother never had—all her edicts were issued from behind a paper, book, or brief. “I’m Marshal Sadie Yamitad, with the Interim Federal Commission for Justice, and I’m arresting you for willful misrepresentation.”

“What?” It came out before he could stop it. Then he caught up with himself. It was a stand-in charge, of course. They needed to nab him for something if they wanted him locked up tight until these proposed tribunals actually came together, under whoever’s government the people chose.

“Fraud, Mr. DePaul. You entered this country under a false name, with false documentation. That’s a crime, and I’m arresting you.”

“But,” said Lillian, hovering awkwardly between the threshold and the center of the room. “But I thought…?” She had not caught on yet to the utility of this accusation.

Jinadh stood and went to her, a sudden movement in the middle of a still tableau. It seemed to startle her back into herself, or the suit of armor she wore.

“Will handcuffs be necessary, Mr. DePaul?” asked Yamitad. “Or can I trust you to walk quietly to the car?”

He shook his head. “No cuffs.”

“I’ll telephone Rinko,” said Lillian. “And if there’s bail to pay, we’ll—”

“Lil,” he said, and shook his head again.

Her jaw turned stiff and her eyes hardened. “We’ll do what we can.” He could hear the unspoken end of the sentence, haunting the air between them: Even if you don’t want it.

“Come on,” said Yamitad, angling her head in the direction of the hall. “It’s a long drive and I don’t want to make it in the dark.”

He went where she had indicated, and felt everyone else group behind him for the long trek through the front hall.

That was when they heard the bomb.