Sure enough, moments later the door opened to admit the sportsmen, still in their damp tweeds. The snow had begun to fall in earnest toward the end of the day and soaked them through. It was falling still; light from inside caught the flakes that came closest to the windowpanes.

When Jinadh saw their guests his features fell out of their pinched, enduring expression into something much more like pleasure. He went to Daoud first, saying, «Blesséd Solstice, respected brother.»

«The same to you,» said Daoud, and looked truly happy for the first time since Lillian had greeted him in the drive. Funny what exile could do: bring a Belqati man and a member of the royal family together at the holidays.

“And Aristide,” Jinadh went on, “I am glad you could come as well.” He offered his hand to shake and Aristide, staring over his shoulder, missed the cue. Daoud cleared his throat, and Aristide jumped to.

“Queen’s sake,” he said, taking Jinadh’s hands. “They’re like ice! Careful you don’t break one off.” A little stiff, a little too affected.

Stephen lingered at Cyril’s side until Jinadh called him over to meet their guests. He came, with a quick glance behind at his uncle. Cyril did not return it, or perhaps even notice. Lurking at the threshold, he held one hand over his pocket as though checking for a watch or cigarette lighter, but did not then withdraw anything.

How had Lillian never noticed it before? Patting a jacket pocket looked just like pressing your palm to a gut wound. The look on her brother’s face certainly fit the image.

“Cyril,” she said, to cut the tension. “Punch?”

He jumped at this name then slowly turned to face her. “No, thank you.”

“I will take some.” Jinadh flopped into the armchair Lillian had left warm when she stood to welcome them in. “Tossing those awful things has given me a pain. I used to throw discus, in school, but that was many years ago and I am out of practice.”

Magnusson, who had entered as though rolled in on silent casters, circulated with the punch tray.

Cyril refused in favor of neat rye, poured from the bar. Magnusson eyed him with censure. Aristide pretended not to watch. Daoud stared at Aristide with the same harsh judgment as the butler aimed at Cyril. Mapping the glares drew a cobweb of malignancy across the room. You could strangle in a snare like that.

In the center stood her son, dripping on the rug.

She knew what was coming. He always begged a cocktail of his own before dinner, and usually ended up with half of one, or a sip of someone else’s, generally only after badgering and begging or sometimes subterfuge.

With the clairvoyance of a medium, or at least a married man and father, Jinadh said, “Stephen, what do you say to a glass of punch?”