In fact, the pile of charred odds and ends in the hearth of the daisy room had not contained the remains of Cyril’s passport. The police and the federal investigators were welcome to sift through it if they liked, along with every other hearth and the spaces under the flagstones and floorboards. Their hopes would go unfulfilled. A family like the DePauls knew how to hide a safe.

Confusion crept into the wrinkle between Aristide’s eyebrows, followed by dawning realization. She watched, fascination almost overtaking anger. In their acquaintance, she had come to know him as a man whose internal workings were largely hidden: a meticulously constructed machine beneath a shining enamel cover. She had never had the opportunity to witness his mechanism at work.

How long had he been sitting at this bar?

Her anger wasn’t exactly doused by pity, but rather temporarily displaced by it. “You shouldn’t drink so much.”

“You needn’t scold me.” He lifted his empty glass, peered into it, and then put it back down on the copper bar with enough inept force she worried the stem might snap. “Daoud’s done enough of that.”

“How is he?” she asked. “Well, I hope.”

Aristide put his face into the tripod of his first two fingertips and thumb. “Queen’s cunt. Who knows?” Then, lifting his head and letting it swing toward her, he saw the abandoned aquavit. “Are you going to drink that?”

She swallowed the rest of it in one go and said, “Why don’t I walk you home?”

It was getting dark now, and bitterly cold. They headed west on Staunton, past gated chanceries with their colors struck for the evening. Their shoes crunched on ice pockmarked by scattered salt. Lights still burned in the buildings, many of them stately old homes that now housed diplomatic missions. Representatives of many nations were exiting to head for home, all swaddled into uniformity by mufflers, heavy coats, and hats pulled low against the wind. Naked tree branches rattled together over the quiet street. Saeger’s mobs of angry supporters had not penetrated this deep into the Central City’s heart.

When they had passed through a small gaggle of bundled-up diplomats and had the sidewalk to themselves, Lillian said, “I don’t suppose you have any other plans in your pockets?”

Aristide, sobered somewhat by the cold, still had to pick his way carefully between icy patches. Lillian found herself waiting for him to catch up before he answered. “None at present, no. Are you pleased?”

She let it lie, because she wasn’t sure of her honest answer, nor of her ability to answer dishonestly.

“I was sure it would work,” he said. Then, more quietly, “I wanted it to work.”

“And you’ve always gotten what you set after,” she said, shaking her head. “How old are you?”

He lifted his chin with affronted dignity that verged on satire.