When she emerged, the house echoed as if empty. A change that would have been pleasant if she didn’t find it so unnerving. She wandered the halls trying to find any of her family or guests, but only encountered Bern bringing in an armload of pine boughs, his shoulders and bundle dusted with snow.

“No idea where anyone’s gone, ma’am,” he told her. “I’ve been out running errands.”

Finally, she turned up Aristide in the drawing room, a book on his knee and music on the wireless, wrapped in a cigarette haze.

“Welcome back to the present time and place,” he said, knocking the ash from his straight into a full tray. “Provisional government still performing as we’d like?”

“It’s still performing,” said Lillian, aiming for the bar. “‘Like’ depends on who you ask.”

Aristide made a noise into his book and flipped a page she felt fairly certain he hadn’t read.

“Where is everyone?” she asked, plucking the stopper from the whiskey decanter.

“Jinadh offered to take Daoud into the village,” said Aristide. “I believe their ultimate destination was the pub.”

“Jinadh hates the pub.”

“Nevertheless,” said Aristide, discarding the butt of his straight.

“They ought to be back soon; everything will close down early.” Whiskey poured, Lillian tucked herself into the curved arm of the divan. “And my next of kin?” Levity distracted from the faint unease that clung to any thought or mention of her brother, her fear of saying his name in Aristide’s presence and seeing what it did to him. Humor helped her pretend the situation was normal.

Still, he shifted in his seat. Closing the book and setting it aside he asked, “Is there any gin over there?”

“And vermouth,” she said. “No olives, I’m afraid. Nor lemons. Mr. Qassan said you preferred a twist, but…” Lemons were rather dear.

His smile was pinched, and he didn’t answer her question until he had his back to her, face hidden. “Out,” he said. “They went for a walk in the woods.”

“At least they’ll work up an appetite.” Lillian was glad Cyril was getting exercise and some fresh air. “Speaking of, I’m ravenous.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” said Aristide. “I asked for a plate of something a while back and I think I’ve earned the cook’s undying hatred. Things seem a little frantic downstairs.”

“Thank you for the tip. I’ll leave them be.”

“Your driver,” he said. “Martí. She’s Tatien, isn’t she?” The bar spoon chimed against the beaker as he stirred.

“Yes, of course. Why?”

“Was she at all mixed up with Memmediv’s messy little venture?”

“You mean independence? I think not. Magnusson tells me she’s quite a patriot. Apparently she was out of service for some time, volunteering with her hometown militia to fight the separatists. Her most recent reference is some five years old.” And she had come cheap, because of that. “Still, good at her job.”