“Steenie,” she said, and wanted to put a hand on his bare foot where it lay, just inches from her hand. He should be wearing socks; it was too cold for skin. “I … I don’t think I know you well enough to answer that.”

“I’m your son,” he said, indignant.

“Do you like me?” she asked.

His mouth did something that reminded her neither of Jinadh, nor of herself, and the truth of what she’d said struck her squarely in the heart—he was becoming his own person. It was terrifying, and incredible; she had made and raised someone who had grown opaque to her. A stranger.

She opened one arm. Stephen peered at her skeptically, so she raised her eyebrows and said, “Don’t be a beast, beastie.” It was what she’d called him when he was probably too small to remember, when Stephen or even Steenie seemed too big a name for such a tiny thing.

Almost managing to look put-upon, he shifted across the sofa cushions so she could settle her arm around his shoulders.

“What’s the jail like on the inside?” he asked. “Are there bars and all?”

He wanted to know about Cyril, and of course he wouldn’t ask. He was a DePaul. Why come at anything straight-on?

“Dull,” she said, because she couldn’t stand to tell him what he wanted to hear. “Cold. The furniture is ugly.”

“Can I go sometime?”

“We’ll see.”

He made a small, assenting sound, and the weight of his head relaxed against her shoulder. The next time she looked down, he had fallen asleep.

She didn’t manage the same, and was still awake to say good morning when Magnusson came to stoke the coals.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-SIX

Aristide swept his hands across the recently cleaned desk of his hotel suite. He had forgotten what color the blotter was. Boxes and sealed envelopes were stacked against one wall. Some were bound back to Liso for Cross. Many he would consign to the incinerator. Or rather, consign to Daoud for incineration. Various bribes, rewards, and remunerations—a healthy chunk of his remaining funds—were among the ephemera, ready to be distributed as his needs required. He hoped he wouldn’t need most of it, but he did like to be prepared.

Daoud was taking inventory of the boxes in his little blue notebook, checking their labels against some list he had scribbled earlier, presumably while he packed. He kept his nose firmly pressed between the pages, eyes cast down. Tension made the air thick as set aspic.

Reaching the end of the row of boxes, Daoud made a last tick mark and pinched his book closed so fast the paper snapped. “That is everything,” he said. “You are well set to leave Amberlough City.”

“Good.” Aristide opened his jacket, and took out an envelope. “That’s for you.”