“As it has been.” She had a book of matches, too, and struck one for him.

“What brings you to my humble drawing room tonight? And how much did it cost?”

“Rather more than I can afford, these days.”

“Is that why you haven’t been visiting?”

She didn’t blush; instead, shame made her mouth grim.

“Don’t feel bad,” he said. “I’d rather keep the money out of Markert’s pocket.”

It didn’t cheer her up. He leaned in, setting the straight on the edge of the table with one finger on the end to steady it, keep it from falling. Lillian had not merited an ashtray.

“Lil,” he said, “is something wrong?”

“No.” She marshaled her expression, and though she favored their mother in the breadth of her face and the shape of her eyes, suddenly he saw Father in her: the puppeteer’s control, the careful presentation.

If she had put on her professional mask, something was very wrong indeed.

“You’re all right,” he said. “Is it Stephen? Aristide?” Then, belatedly, “Jinadh?”

The delay earned him a rueful look, her mouth twisted to the side by a hook of pained amusement. “Everything is fine, Cyril. Can’t I come see you without news, or an ulterior motive? You’re my brother.”

There. Something flickered beneath her practiced polish. Like the flash of a startled fish in dappled water, it was gone again before he knew what he had seen.

But she didn’t want to talk about it. Or … He cut his eyes toward the wire-crossed observation window, to the bored-looking guards behind it. One woman smoked; another picked at her hangnails. Only Markert, supervising his more junior associates, still watched them closely. And then there was Pryzbieza, leaning on the wall not ten feet away. His conversations with Rinko were ostensibly private, by law. His conversations with Lillian did not have that privilege.

Whatever it was, maybe she couldn’t talk about it here. And he would have to guess her purpose.

“Your brother,” he said. “I am. And a heap of good it’s done you.”

“I don’t know.” She managed a smile. The glare of the bad lights over her eyes showed him they were wet, though the tears didn’t make it to her voice. “I think you gave me a good example of what not to do.”

“And somebody convenient to blame all your mischief on.”

“Cy,” she said, suddenly grave. “I’m so sorry for what Daddy did to you.”

Surprise put a rod down his spine. “What do you mean?”

“Stephen told me, about … after Tatié. I never knew.” She struggled with her words for a moment, then said, “No. That isn’t true. I guessed. I just … I knew I wouldn’t like what you were up to.”