Cyril didn’t remember flinging himself to the ground. He remembered stepping into the hall, and then his cheek pressed against the cold marble floor.

He was the first one up, because when his brain started working again it told him that the bomb had not been large—the sound at least said that much. He could still hear. The front of the house had not been damaged, not that he could tell from inside.

Back on his feet, he ran to the front doors and hauled them open, the marshal shouting after him. Jem and Paley were slow to give chase, no doubt still shaking in their boots.

The car was in one piece, though barely. Its windows and windshield were gone and noxious smoke poured through the openings. The interior had been destroyed. From the state of the front steps, there had not been much shrapnel beyond the broken windows—the stone remained intact, not even pockmarked. It was not a bomb intended to kill or maim. It was a distraction; a point made.

Stephen was very wisely nowhere to be seen.

“Damnation, DePaul,” said Yamitad, coming up behind him. “I thought we said you wouldn’t need hand—mother’s tits.”

A change in the breeze blew cordite smoke in their direction.

“You’re lucky the tank didn’t blow,” he said.

“Officers,” barked Yamitad.

Jem and Paley, so stuffed up at the beginning of this affair, were white-faced and wide-eyed now, scurrying sheepishly up to flank the marshal. When they saw the car, one swore and one just let his jaw drop. Cyril wondered which was Paley and which was Jem.

Lillian and Jinadh, who had not so far as Cyril knew ever been in law enforcement or enemy territory, recovered more slowly, and crept up to the door with more caution.

Lillian blanched when she saw the damage. “Temple bells,” she said. “Marshal, I—” Then, hand flying to her mouth, “Mother and sons, where’s Stephen?”

“I’ll find him,” said Jinadh, putting his hand briefly on Lillian’s arm before he hurried back into the house.

It was not suspicion, on her part, but fear. His sister had not automatically picked out her son as the bomber, as Cyril had. She was only worried that he had been hurt.

Yamitad was less sentimental, and had her hands firmly on the reins once more. “Who’s responsible for this?”

“Me,” said Cyril. Some grit on the floor had cut his cheek when he dropped. Not deeply, but enough that the scrape had begun to burn.

“You couldn’t possibly—” Lillian began but he turned a look on her that had its roots in their childhood together. The one that said Shut up or they’ll find us out. It had evolved somewhat, given his circumstances in later life. But she recognized it and shut her teeth.