“Are they close together?” Because the way that bearded twig of a boy had been watching Aristide all night, the careful placement of his hand on Ari’s elbow as he made a point … those meant something more than “secretary.”

“I think across the hall. She gave Mr. Qassan the hill room, and Mr. Makricosta has the, um … the…”

“The El,” said Cyril, who had lived in this house longer than his nephew, though many years ago.

The El was a two-room suite: a study attached to a bedroom, which was technically not in the north wing at all, but the central part of the house. The office door would be across from Qassan’s bedroom, which gave them a shred of deniability. It also meant that, from the right room in the north wing, the bedroom window would be visible.

“Come on,” said Cyril.

Stephen didn’t question him: just got up and followed.

The room he was aiming for had been … Oh, Great-Grandfather’s reading room? He couldn’t recall. It was unused now, thick with dust, and freezing cold. Sheets shrouded what furniture remained—Lillian had pinched some for the rooms she kept open, apparently having lost a great deal to the Ospies. Obviously no one had used the room since the family took up residence. Too expensive to heat the whole house, probably, and not enough staff to keep it clean.

Their feet would leave prints in the dust. Unavoidable. With luck, no one would check on this room after they left it. At least not for a long while.

“Window seat,” said Cyril, and pointed. Stephen sat, and sneezed. Cyril leaned over him, checking the view from the window. Exactly as he remembered.

It took half an hour of waiting before Ari’s bedroom light flicked on. By then Cyril’s toes had gone numb and Stephen had begun to fidget. But that died away with the lamp’s flare, and the sudden appearance of a figure in the window perpendicular to theirs.

“It’s him,” said Stephen, whispering. His breath clouded the glass before his face.

Cyril made a noncommittal noise as they watched Aristide prepare for bed. Alone. He’d been half expecting Daoud to act as a valet, too, but Aristide removed his cuff links on his own, and unwound the bow tie from beneath his collar. Because they had dressed for dinner this evening, with company, except for Cyril. His father had not lived to see the advent of black tie, and left behind only tails. Given the choice between stiff formality and ill-fitting chalk-stripe, he chose the latter, though to put it on was to remember Aristide had ordered it for him. That he wore Ari’s money and Ari’s taste against his skin.

Across the corner of the courtyard, Aristide hung his jacket on the valet stand and unbuckled his cummerbund. His rings were next, and then the pearl drops from his ears. He looked around the room, made a pursed face, and turned back to his jacket. From one pocket, he withdrew a small, round flask and emptied it down his throat. He had just begun to pull the studs free from his shirt when he paused, turned his head, and said something.