How was she supposed to face lunch after that? But she had to. It would be the best time to break the news to Jinadh, in front of Stephen. She could frame it as a family affair, a chance for Stephen to meet his uncle. She was bringing Cyril home for Solstice, not to hide him in obscurity until after the memorial dedication. After that, she could …

What, send him away again? Or perhaps he could stay at Damesfort. Riskier than, say, the chalet in Ibet, but less callous. And anyway, the chalet had been sold years ago, after the Ospies confiscated everything the DePauls had ever owned.

She could hardly think of the situation except in strategic terms. Anything at a smaller distance plunged her into formless terror and nameless hope. Lunch would keep her on an even keel, businesslike, presenting her plan.

As she came down the hall, she heard Stephen expounding about school in the dining room. He still sounded shrill—his voice hadn’t broken yet, though she thought it might in the next year. Queen keep her then. He was already a terror; staggering over the cusp of manhood would only make him worse.

“All the children at school are so boring,” he said, and she paused in the corridor to listen. “Everyone’s always after me to be their friend—I could have lots of friends if I wanted, because I’m so exotic—but everybody’s about as interesting as boiled peas.”

He called himself exotic without irony, but inwardly Lillian cringed. Yes, he was the son of a disgraced courtier and a defrocked diplomat whose family history was checkered with divisive politics and shadowy deals. But the international day school in Sunho had been full of students from around the world. Missionaries’ daughters, correspondents’ sons. The children of investors, contractors, expatriates, and academics. Classes had been taught in Asunese but the chatter in the classroom was as varied as the hair, the clothes, the colors of skin.

She imagined Cantrell was a bit hard to stomach, after that. Especially coming in for his final year, when all the other students had knit together closely and there was little room left for a new friend. The best he could hope for, she supposed, was to play the aloof but interesting foreign boy, the prize for everyone to chase to prove that they were cosmopolitan.

How dismally lonesome he must be.

“And Master Wythe—she teaches history—she hates me because of Mum and her brother and the Ospies and Grandmama and all, I guess, but she won’t say any of it right out. She just canes me for stupid stuff.”

“I’m sure that isn’t true,” said Jinadh. Lillian, who had been at Cantrell, was quite certain that it was.