Jinadh, apparently realizing the same thing, let a little of his glitter fade. “Please do not thank me. I hate myself for letting you near her.”

“I don’t know if it did any good. But I do have lunch with Frye this week.”

He closed his eyes, as if against sun glare, and sighed. “Good luck. Will you at least keep the week of Solstice clear?”

“Of course. Well, as clear as I can. Duty may call, with Honora and the rest.”

“As long as you are at the table,” said Jinadh, casting his eyes afar in a manner she recognized as avoidance. “I do not want to host alone.”

“Host?”

“Yes,” he said. His fingertips pressing on the rim of his coupe were another small tell. «I’ve invited my respected brother Daoud Qassan. And also, Aristide.»

Since Lillian and Jinadh were out for the evening, Cyril braved the dinner table. Without his sister wrangling the social interactions, the whole thing felt less like an ordeal and more like an opportunity to shovel in some food.

The dining room echoed like the rest of the house, bare of ornaments. The table was not the great sweep of golden oak Cyril remembered, resting on elaborately curled legs. It had been replaced by something square and utilitarian, largely hidden by a plain white cloth.

Stephen showed up a few minutes after Cyril did, flinging himself into his chair with an aggrieved sigh. Cyril waited for the complaint that seemed imminent, but then Stephen’s eyes rose from his plate, snagged briefly on Cyril’s, and fell again. Silence reigned.

Bern, the footman, leaned past Cyril to put a few slices of stuffed cabbage on his plate. He forgot that he was supposed to say stop, and ended up with too many. Years ago, his parents had banished Lillian’s spaniel from the dining room after they realized he was feeding it his scraps. He’d hated the rotten thing, except for its utility under the table. Could have used it now.

Stephen picked at his cabbage. Cyril watched the angle of his head fall, his bony shoulders tucked around his ears.

“What did you think of all that?” asked Cyril, against his better judgment.

“The speeches?” asked Stephen. “The Catwalk?”

“Any of it.”

Stephen shrugged. “Big fuss about something done.” Then a pause, the tines of his fork creaking pensively against the porcelain. “D’you think that’s why they made such a racket about the pencil sharpener? ’Cause it was a bomb, and folk are all het about the Catwalk still? Most I should’ve had was a switching, or even if they’d kept me out of classes. But instead it’s … well they aren’t acting normal about it.”

“How so?” asked Cyril, sipping his water. Magnusson hadn’t brought any wine to the table, and there were no glasses for it. Cyril wondered if that was penury or overprotectiveness.