The days before Solstice dragged for everyone else in the house. Or at least, Lillian got that impression when she could haul herself out of her office and away from the telephone. The work of the government—even a temporary one—did not stop for a little thing like the rebirth of the sun.

Anyway, holing up with work gave her an excuse to avoid the various interpersonal tensions ratcheting tighter and tighter in the halls of Damesfort.

On the day preceding the longest night, however, she could no longer use work as an avoidance tactic: everyone else had gone home, rung off, closed up. If tasks were unfinished, they would have to wait until the new year began tomorrow.

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.”