He had meant to end things with Daoud. He had, for a while. But after two years of failure in the war-torn border jungles, hope fading and everything familiar left far behind, what was he supposed to do? He sought comfort where it came most easily.

And perhaps he’d kept seeking it, even after he established himself. After he had a home and a company and reconnected with an old business partner. Because it was easy. Because it was reassuring to return to something one understood, even if it didn’t exactly satisfy.

“How long,” said Daoud, “must I keep Cross’s patience?” He sounded on the verge of snapping, though he never did. At least not where Aristide could hear him. Did he have friends to whom he could complain? He worked all the rotten time. Maybe that was why he put up—and kept it up—with Aristide. No chance to cultivate other options.

“Well.” Aristide put his hand over his eyes, behind which a headache had begun to build. It was past two o’clock, and therefore long past time for a drink, but he’d been busy. Sweat was starting under his arms and on his palms. A drink, then lunch. Then another drink. That would put his shakes away, and the pain in his temples, too. “I need you to look into flights for me.”

“From Dadang to Rarom?”

“Yes, but also.” Lady’s name, he was going to get into it now, wasn’t he? “Is there anything from Dadang to … to the Dameskill regional airstrip?”

“Where?”

“It’s in Amberlough,” said Aristide. “Near … near Lillian’s estate.”

There was a long pause, unbroken by crackle of paper or clatter of pen. “So you are sending him home.”

“I’m sending him ahead,” said Aristide. “I’ll sail later from Ul-Weiya.”

“You told her yes?” Daoud had been privy to Aristide’s rant upon receipt of Lillian’s first invitation. He sounded as incredulous as he had a right to.

“I did.” He didn’t owe Daoud an explanation, and wouldn’t give one.

“Good,” said Daoud.

“You thought I should go? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“How would you have taken it? You said it ‘smacked of political striving,’ and was ‘unseemly, cheap, and disrespectful.’ I did not know her as you did, so my opinion did not enter the discussion.”

He did not ask the question Aristide had never let himself answer: How else would Cordelia want to be remembered? Carmine lips, crass language, hair so bright it could have been mistaken for candy floss.

Daoud hadn’t known her then, and he hadn’t known her long. But even he had known her; one couldn’t help but get a faceful when she walked into a room.

If anything happens to me, she’d said, I just want folk to know what I did. I miss the applause.