Stones, it felt good to be on solid ground again. She set Cyril aside, along with her cup and saucer. “You have more experience, a better campaign, better people behind you—you ought to win this election. But if you’re going to win against Saeger, you’ve got to get people angry about something. You need to make them cry. Get at their hearts and you can have them.”

The mantel clock ticked loudly in the silence after Lillian wrapped up this little speech. Caught in consideration of the idea, Frye sat still as if she had been carved from wood. Only the glittering of half-closed eyes gave her away. Under that hooded gaze, Lillian felt doubt creep in at the edges of her confidence. Had she miscalculated? Did Frye dislike the approach she had outlined? Or had she made some other misstep and lost this opportunity?

Then, softly, the candidate began to clap her hands. “Worthy of the stage,” she said.

Lillian let out her breath and allowed herself a modest smile. “I’ve stood behind my fair share of podiums.”

A soft knock on the parlor door heralded the maid, who bobbed a curtsy and said, “Lunch is served.”

“Just in time,” said Frye. “Ambition makes me hungry.”

PART

2

CHAPTER

TWELVE

Cyril watched his sister dart in and out like a stitching needle for the next few days. She spent hardly an hour in the house over the course of the week. And Jinadh worked late at … whatever it was he did. Some kind of newspaper job?

At the end of the week, he made it home in time for an aperitif. Lillian was still out, making gears turn, but Stephen and Cyril were both in, and practicing a particular aspect of tradecraft: reassuring the target and soothing their suspicions.

Stephen laid flat on the rug in the library, nose stuck in one of his assigned texts. Cyril was close at hand on the sofa, cigarette smoldering in the ashtray, the Clarion propped on his knee. He’d even shaved, and put on a clean undershirt and a cardigan Magnusson had unearthed for him. From the look on Jinadh’s face, the cardigan was his.

“Don’t you two look cozy,” said Jinadh, when he had recovered his equilibrium after noticing the sweater. He poured himself a stingy drink and collapsed into an armchair, setting his feet on Stephen’s rear as though the boy were an ottoman.

“Hey!” said Stephen, and wiggled out from beneath him.

Jinadh asked something in Porashtu, to which Stephen responded, “A book, obviously.”

Leaning forward, Jinadh tipped the cover to read it. “Kandeep,” he said, impressed.

“It’s on my list,” said Stephen. “I thought it’d be boring but Uncle Cyril said he remembered it from school and it was the only thing he liked.”

Over the rim of his glass, Jinadh cased Cyril with bloodshot eyes. “Really?”