Lillian was supposed to be working. She had a folder full of mimeos spread across her desk: briefs from her team, and a half-written strategy plan for the provisional government’s approach to the election. But despite her intentions she spent the morning looking between the clock and the window, and occasionally calling Magnusson from his own work to ask if the mail had come, or a telegram, or any news at all. Nervous energy simmered through her limbs, combining with the imminence of Stephen’s arrival to destroy any hope of productivity.

Still, somehow, she missed the car as it came around the bend. The clock hands read ten past one when she heard the engine and the spatter of small stones against the fenders.

Excitement zipped out from her chest to her hands, chased by apprehension. Stephen’s presence tended to highlight—and exacerbate—her differences with Jinadh. When he was younger, it had been less of a problem, as he had less of an opinion and less of a voice to lift in protest.

She hated that he’d been raised by parents first separated by circumstance—and by her own stubbornness—and then united against adversity. The latter had on occasion brought them closer together, but had far more often driven them to outbursts, tears, and accusations.

She had hoped that settling in Gedda, where they all spoke the language, where she and Stephen at least understood the social norms and etiquette, would smooth some of those rough patches. But Stephen, who had been at an international day school in Sunho, was having trouble readjusting to boarding, and to the discipline and academics of the Geddan system. His letters had come infrequently this term, all of them surly. The headmaster’s came far more often, but were not much cheerier in tone.

When Lillian couldn’t sleep, which was often, the consequences of her decisions dogged her.

The engine cut out in front of the house. She swept her papers into a pile and left her study for the landing. By the time she made the bottom of the staircase, Magnusson had the doors pulled open on a brilliant, bitter afternoon. Martí and Bern struggled up the steps with a steamer trunk, and Stephen stood on the running board with a satchel slung over one shoulder. His pants were too short, revealing several inches of cabled sock over bony ankles. Same with his cuffs, which showed the delicate knobs of his wrists. His growth spurt had melted the last of his baby fat away, turning everything about him angular. The sun made his buttons and boots gleam, but if his scowl had been a heavenly body it would have eclipsed the brightness handily.

Jinadh beat her to the drive and opened his arms. Stephen grudgingly allowed himself to be embraced.

«Do you plan on setting off any bombs now that you’re home?» asked Jinadh, when they had pulled apart.