Perhaps five years wasn’t quite enough time to bury bad news. At least for some people. And it seemed the DePauls couldn’t please anyone, on any side of the argument. Just something Stephen would have to learn to live with. If he got back into school at all.

“There’s one boy who speaks Asunese,” Stephen went on, “but he’s horrid and nobody likes him and anyway he isn’t as good as me. I’m going to forget it all if I can’t practice.”

«We’ve engaged an Asunese tutor for you,» said Jinadh. Lillian cringed, remembering how much the woman charged.

«I don’t need a tutor.» The cringe melted in a swell of pride. How easily her son slipped from Geddan to Porashtu to complain about Asunese. «I already know how to speak it.»

Even from her hideout just beyond the door, Lillian could hear Jinadh sigh. «No, partridge, she’s a regular tutor. Only she’ll teach you in Asunese.»

Before Stephen could whine about the endearment, or launch into some fresh tale of woe from school, Lillian made her entrance. “So sorry,” she said, settling into the empty chair at the head of the table and spreading pickle thinly on a slice of bread. “Radio call, from Liso. Expensive, so we kept it short.”

«And the outcome?» Over his coffee, Jinadh’s gaze hung heavy with meaning. He’d caught on, but wasn’t sure she wanted to bring this all up in front of Stephen.

Setting aside her bread unbitten, she decided to end his suspense. Lunch was served cold on the sideboard, so none of the staff were present. That would be another conversation entirely. “Steenie, dear.”

His eyes rolled over to her, dragging as if the weight of his suffering held them down. Had she ever managed to look so put-upon, at his age? She had certainly seen the same expression on her brother’s face. Would she have matched that memory to this moment, if things didn’t stand as they were? “Do you remember Uncle Cyril?”

“The secret agent?” he said. “The one who died?”

“We don’t know that’s what he was. I said he did lots of work he couldn’t talk about.”

“Duquesne at school said he was a spy,” said Stephen. “And a traitor.”

“It’s complicated.”

“‘Complicated’ just means you don’t want to admit it.”

“Stephen,” said Jinadh, setting his cup into its saucer. The porcelain snapped with an anger that had been absent from his voice.

“Complicated means complicated,” she said. “Maybe it will be better for your uncle to explain it himself.”

Given Jinadh’s expression, she was glad he’d set down his cup before she spoke.

“What?” Stephen’s raised brows and open mouth turned him into a poor copy of Jinadh. “How? He’s dead.”