Her office door confronted her before she was ready. The black resin of the telephone was cool, and her breath caught in a brief patch of condensation on the mouthpiece.

“Hello,” she said. “This is Lillian.”

“Lillian.” Aristide’s voice, though it came through a haze of crackling interference after a long lag, sounded more immediate than Magnusson’s, more immediate even than her own. “How are you?”

“Fine, thank you.” The small talk came out automatically. At the price per minute of a transoceanic radio call, they didn’t have time for it. “And … and my brother? How is he?”

“He’d like to come to Amberlough for the dedication. I can arrange his travel.”

Words stalled. She wasted precious airtime with her lips parted and her lungs empty. “You could fly into Dameskill county,” she said, finally, airless. “The regional airstrip is a short drive from Damesfort. If the weather’s good, it should get you here a few days sooner than sailing.” Then, “You’re coming, too?”

Fraught, crackling silence on the line. Then, “Yes, of course.”

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, you don’t like to fly, of—”

“No,” he said. “It’s simply—”

The line got garbled, his protest lagging behind and tangling with her apology, until they both went silent waiting for the other to talk. Finally, Lillian said, “I’m sorry. Go on.”

“I have some business in Rarom that needs to be wrapped up before I leave. I thought you might like him home before that. So you can … catch up, I suppose.”

“You’d send him ahead?” Unspoken, the question: Was he whole and competent to see himself across international borders?

“Just by a few days,” said Aristide. “If that’s all right.”

Her little brother. Coming back from the dead. In a state of disgrace and dishevelment at the most inconvenient time, but if that wasn’t Cyril all over, what was?

Last she’d seen him he had been in the hospital, just back from some mysterious errand in Tatié: wan with exhaustion so his tan looked dusty. Anger had seemed to be the only thing keeping him awake.

Who was her brother now?

“Of course,” she said. “Cable with the details? We’ve jawed long enough to empty out the treasury, I’m sure.”

“Lillian.” She heard a loud rasping noise—shuffling papers, maybe, or shifting in his chair. Or a stray storm scrambling the call. “He’s … I don’t know what you might expect, but I think he ought to be treated with some delicacy.”

Lifting her hand to brush at a tickle on her cheek, she found she was crying and wondered when that had begun. Wiping the tears away with the heel of her free hand, she said, “Send him ahead, Aristide. We’ll take care of him in Carmody.”