When Lillian made a surprised sound, Jinadh shrugged and said, “It’s the holidays.”

But Stephen, too, was watching Cyril swirl the glass of rye. Finally, he tore his eyes from his uncle and stood up straight. “Actually,” he said, “I think I’d like some whiskey.”

Dinner was more of an ordeal than some beatings Cyril had endured. At least when someone was hitting you, you knew exactly where you stood.

But thinking that, and then seeing Aristide a few seats down, fork flirting with his dinner … well. Those memories belied the comparison. The exception, then, that proved the rule.

The food itself strengthened some of his suspicions. Meatloaf made of mostly breadcrumbs, served with garden greens. No proper beef, no fish. Not even poached chicken.

That would in part be due to scarcity. Magnusson kept a store of old newspapers downstairs for window cleaning, shoe polishing, and other tasks. Cyril had raided this to do some catch-up reading and found the past several seasons had been hard on farmers. Imports were expensive; key trading partners alienated by the Ospies were still reluctant to engage with an unstable Gedda. Shipping by sea was possible in coastal regions, but the railroads and highways were still recovering from Catwalk depredations. It was simply hard to find food and to move it. The DePaul fortune should have made this a negligible concern, but Cyril was starting to wonder if there might not be such a thing anymore.

Finally, mercifully, the meal ended. Stephen was sent to bed and the liqueurs came out. Cyril refused and made himself scarce.

He found Stephen at the top of the stairs, leaning back on his elbows. The indistinct sounds of conversation rose from the dining room, flowing more freely now that Cyril had gone.

“Bad acoustics,” he said.

“There isn’t a better spot.” Stephen sat up and put his elbows on his knees. Over the sharp bones, his skin was pebbled by the pressure of the carpet. “I tried to find one at the summer holidays, but this is it. Sometimes if they get loud you can make out the words.”

It was true; Cyril remembered from childhood. There were places in Damesfort that made eavesdropping simple. The dining room was not one of them. “What rooms did Lillian put the guests in?”

This occasioned some pursing of the lips and a little bit of thoughtful tooth-grinding. It was a show; Cyril had seen this boy at the dinner table more than once, and knew how well he hid what went on in his head. He wanted Cyril to be impressed. “Best ones in the north wing,” he said at last.

Which weren’t nearly as nice as the worst in the south. They were dark, and caught a draft. There were empty bedrooms in better parts of the house. He smelled spite. She was displeased at Jinadh’s invitation.