“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said, collapsing onto the sofa beside Jinadh. He put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her, briefly. Enough that she knew the change of station had only occurred after she spoke. He had heard every word of it.

“Any good news?” she asked. “I don’t want to hear the other stuff.”

“Beastie?” Jinadh stretched out one leg to jostle Stephen’s foot. He was sprawled across the rug, reading a comic book. Now that his exams were over he’d returned to less academic fare.

“Oh, yeah.” He sat up and snatched something from the end table. “This came.”

Lillian took the envelope from him—torn hastily at the top, which meant Jinadh had let him open it. The Cantrell seal at the flap told her what it was, and if it was good news …

Dear Ms. DePaul and Mr. Addas,

We are pleased to inform you that your son, Stephen DePaul, has, after due consideration, been readmitted to The Youth Academy at Cantrell.

It went on in the same vein, with instructions for payment, registration, and the beginning of classes. Payment she could make, again thanks to Makricosta. All she had traded him was her only brother.

Cyril had always been a hassle. A nightmare. A mess in need of sweeping, mopping, tidying up. But in that, he had been dependable. A constant. A foil she could always count on. Guilt made her chest ache. Was that really all she had used him for? Was that the only reason she would miss him? Because without him she had no way to downplay her own flaws?

No. But it was the reason that occurred to her first, because of what their parents had made them. And what she had made herself.

But their parents had not prepared them for this Gedda—the Ospies, the war, the chaos in its wake. Their lessons and their expectations had to be set aside. Maybe now, Lillian could simply miss Cyril as a sister missed a brother she would never see again.

Under the guise of a headache, she pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes. If she used the motion to wipe away tears, she was practiced at hiding it. When she blinked her vision clear, she saw Stephen flopped back onto the floor, nose buried in the three-color adventures of—

“What’s that you’re reading?” she asked, proud that her voice didn’t quaver.

Stephen rolled his eyes at her and said, “Mind your own.”

Her first instinct was a sharp rebuke, but she caught it before it flew. He reminded her of Cyril, yes. But she wouldn’t treat him the way Cyril had been treated. He wasn’t her legacy; he was her son.

She poked his belly with her toe, and when he scowled and rolled away she said, “Believe me, I am.”