Jinadh’s frown deepened, and he made no secret of looking at Cyril. Still, he said, “Well enough,” and untied the cord of his smoking jacket. “I will go tell him.”

After he left, Lillian scrubbed her palms down the front of her skirt. “So. That’s Jinadh.”

“He’s handsome,” said Cyril, for want of anything more diplomatic. He suspected, from that exchange, that they often fought. But maybe it was only nerves.

Lillian blinked as though he’d spoken in a foreign language. Then said, “You needn’t worry about dressing for dinner. We’re certainly not going to.”

“I wasn’t,” he said. “Remember? I don’t have any clothes.”

From the head of the table, Lillian stared across a surreal landscape. Everything was as it should have been for a guest—what was left of the good china, the freshly polished silver that almost matched—and the dining room was as it always had been. Even the occasional brush of Jinadh’s elbow, as he dined left-handed to her right, was familiar.

But Stephen had gone from her left hand to the foot of the table, and her brother sat in his place.

Her brother, who she had kicked under this very table when he talked back, or tried to make her laugh in front of company. Who tonight, when Bern bent over to offer a dish of stewed greens, started so violently he nearly upset his glass. Her brother, who had been dead until this week, or as good as.

“Well,” she said, cringing internally at the too-bright note her voice struck. “It’s wonderful to have a full table, anyway.”

Jinadh’s smile wavered in the candlelight; he knew her well enough to parse the tone. Stephen made a small noise of disdain. Cyril put a piece of chicken in his mouth.

She picked up her fork. Put it down. “Cyril, there were some of Daddy’s things left in the attic—a miracle, really, with everything else we lost. It was very hodgepodge, what the … previous tenants took. Anyway, I had Magnusson bring the lot down and air them for you. He was about your size, I think. Daddy, I mean.”

He kept chewing, giving her a bare nod.

She had known it would be hard. She had known he wouldn’t be who she remembered, and even the brother she remembered had driven the rest of the family to tail-chasing at times. That didn’t make this easier. “And I made up the daisy room for you. You remember the daisy room? It’s that big one, just off the—”

“I know,” he said, and drank some wine.

Silence crept across the table.

“May I be excused?” said Stephen, in a sudden clatter of silverware.

“Not yet,” said Lillian, more sharply than she’d meant to. This was not proceeding as she had envisioned.

Stephen sighed and scraped the tines of his fork across his plate.

“Let him go.”