She led him—Where? What was around this corner?—to the library, yes, and paused at the door to knock. In her own home? Well, he supposed she wanted to warn whoever was in there she had come with him in tow.

Who was in there? Just Stephen? But why would he wait alone in the library, which they had as children always been forbidden?

He heard her murmur a sentence in Porashtu, and then an answering low voice, muffled by the door. Not a child; a grown man. Nerves crept up the nape of his neck. He didn’t like going blind into a room. He didn’t like the empty hallway at his back.

“Here he is,” said Lillian, swinging wide the door. Cyril didn’t know if she meant the announcement for him, or for his opposite number in the library.

The man on the sofa wore a quilted smoking jacket over a green flannel suit, and red velvet slippers over thick socks. His long, black hair was gathered into a messy knot at the back of his head, from which several tendrils of loose curls had escaped. A thick beard, closely cut, traced the line of his jaw and bracketed finely curved lips haunted by the echo of a habitual frown. The same frown had put deep furrows in his brow.

Firelight warmed his face on one side, bringing out rich clay red in the dark brown of his skin. Where the sharp angles of his cheek and nose cast shadows, only the gleam of his eye showed.

“Jinadh,” said Lillian, “this is my brother. Cyril, this is Jinadh. Stephen’s father. My husband.”

Jinadh unfolded from the sofa and came to Lillian’s side. He put out a hand to shake. Cyril missed the moment he put his own hand into Jinadh’s proffered one. The man’s palm was dry and warm, his grip firm. It was a good handshake, and it was the only thing that anchored Cyril to the moment.

Lillian was married. There was someone living at Damesfort who was not him, nor her, nor their parents. Someone who did not fit into his memories of the house or his own family. Cyril was related to this man, and the only thing that connected them was this handshake.

As though anything else felt closer than that; as though the rest of the world weren’t at an arm’s length, and him clinging to it by strength of habit and his fingertips.

“Where’s Stephen?” said Lillian.

Jinadh’s mouth fell into the frown Cyril had seen lurking. “I sent him to his room. He was being … difficult.” The lilting cadence of Porashtu colored his Geddan, putting even more emphasis on the euphemism.

“We agreed—” Lillian bit off whatever she had been going to say, and began again, more placating. “Perhaps tonight we can be lenient?” Cyril felt the change in her focus, her weight shifting slightly in his direction.