Daoud watched him from across the room, but made no move to come closer. His eyes grew cold, and a certain haughty lift came into his posture.

“Severance.” Aristide dropped it on the blotter—a very nice shade of sage green, really. “More than generous, I think, given the terms of your contract.”

“I am remaining with Cross-Costa, Aristide. You are not. I do not think it is your right to sack me.”

Familiar pain from a bad tooth plagued Aristide when he clenched his jaw. “Take the rotten money.”

“Why? To ease your conscience?” Daoud sneered. “I am not a whore.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Dramatic? I am not the one who is planning some sort of jailbreak—”

“Didi,” he said, because the pet name came more easily. He hadn’t realized, until then, how hard the dental consonants could crack against his teeth in anger.

Apparently, neither had Daoud. He stopped abruptly, and the blood drained from beneath his dark brown skin, leaving his face flat and hollow.

“You aren’t going to cry, are you?” Embarrassed, Aristide retreated to the firm ground of cruelty.

The notebook was out of Daoud’s hand so fast that at first Aristide didn’t understand what had struck the far wall. And then Daoud was in front of him, palms pressed to the desk, eyes decidedly dry and alight with fury. “What is wrong with you, Aristide?”

“Not a damned thing,” he snapped. “I know it was you who told Lillian about Frye. I’ll thank you not to run out to every society lady you see, begging them to take me on for the sake of charity.”

“Then do not act as though you need it! How many times this month do you remember putting yourself to bed? And the mischief you get up to … bhakchala, Aristide, if nobody looks after you, you will drown in your own sick.”

“And you think it should be you? Because you clearly find it so rewarding.”

“Nobody is going to do it for you in prison! And I doubt that Cyril DePaul will manage!”

“Lower your voice at once,” demanded Aristide, looking over his shoulder as though someone might have overheard.

Daoud snatched up the envelope between them. “I do not follow your orders anymore. Not if you truly wish me to take this.”

“You’ll take it and turn tail.” Aristide didn’t know when he had stood from his chair, but he suddenly realized he was towering over Daoud, talking down and at volume to a man who had never grown past his slight adolescence.

It deflated his rage somewhat, and made him, paradoxically, feel small. Sinking back into his chair, he let Daoud’s glare push him deep into the upholstery. Eventually, the strength of it even pushed down his eyes. Staring at his fingers, steepled before his lips, he spoke to the garnet on his pinkie.