If he had been on the boards, it would have been easy to slide from his chair. He would have been wearing pads over his knees, and the impact would not have sent a jolt through his bones straight into his teeth. Doctor Footlights would have cured his hangover, the ache in his heart, and the banging in his head.

If he had been under a spotlight, he would have been someone else. Only putting on a show. But he wasn’t stagefolk anymore. He meant everything he did this time, and felt it.

“Oh, for … Makricosta.” Saeger set her mug aside and held out her hands, as though she would grab him and stop him from taking the gesture any further.

“Cordelia died fighting for the things she lost.” When was the last time he had wept? Is this what it had felt like? “Lillian put a whole new life together. But I didn’t have the courage to die or change, and now he’s the only thing that’s left for me.”

“Get up,” said Saeger, voice ragged. “For Queen’s sake, get off the floor.”

“Please,” he said, hanging his head and sinking lower. “I don’t know how else to say it. Please.”

“All right,” she said. “All right,” and scooted back in her chair as if afraid he might fall forward into her lap. Instead, he sat on his heels and lifted his face, eyes closing in relief.

“I’ll make a call,” she told him, standing up. Her palms she wiped on her thighs, as though they were soiled. “But not because it’s right, and not because of Delia. I’ll only help you two get out because this country ain’t got room for cowards anymore.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-FIVE

Magnusson knew his way around a range well enough, but he was no Bradley, to stretch meager supplies into a meal worthy of the linen it was set on. Still, he’d gotten up something edible for dinner.

Lillian had no appetite for it, but Jinadh gave her that grandmother look he did so well, and so she managed a slice of toast and beans.

At her left hand, Stephen chewed in silence. When had he last spoken to either of them? Really spoken, and not some sharp remark in response to a reasonable request. Was this only growing pains, or was something really wrong? How was she to know? And where would she find the skills to fix it, when everything was crumbling around her?

“Have you done your reading this week?” she asked.

Stephen looked up from his plate, food stuffed into one cheek, and didn’t answer.

“We had a letter from the school; they’d like to schedule your assessment exams.”

“Why bother?” he said, into his beans.

“I’m sorry?”

He swallowed, overdramatic, and jammed his fork into the baked potato on his plate. “You heard what I said.”