Jinadh was much drunker than Daoud, and Daoud was certainly not sober. But neither was morose, thanks be. By and large Jinadh got laughing drunk, but if he started out on the wrong foot he could stumble into a foul pit of moodiness. She’d worried, hearing he’d turned to the village pub, but drinking with a countryman apparently made the place more tolerable.

Magnusson brought coffee for the two revelers to settle them before dinner, which was imminent. Just in time for the dressing gong, Stephen and Cyril straggled in with soaked feet and filthy clothes. No sharp glances passed between her husband and her brother: the former too merry and distracted, the latter … well, unchanged. Aristide did not bolt from the room, nor sharpen his tongue on anyone present. His tipsy secretary did not turn possessive. Hot punch was poured down everyone’s throats before they were sent to change.

Lillian began to have the wonderful, familiar feeling of gliding on clockwork: the feeling she got when things came together well and everything went the way it was supposed to. This rare, sweet sensation was usually limited to her professional sphere, and it was both pleasant and strange to feel it in the confines of her childhood home. Especially given the circumstances.

At exactly the stroke of eight, they all sat down to tall white candles nestled amidst pine boughs and holly berries. Waxy garlands of mistletoe wound between the place settings.

A roast goose, basted golden, sat queenly over casseroles and roasted vegetables. Most of it came from the estate, she knew; the turnips and potatoes were from the kitchen garden. Until yesterday, the goose had probably been living a quiet life on the local pond. The most expensive things to get had probably been the cooking oil and the sugar for the glaze. But unless you knew all that, it looked like a sumptuous spread.

She’d have to ask Jinadh if the household budget could afford a bit extra for the staff’s Solstice fête. Or perhaps it would be better just to slip them all a little envelope of thanks.

Silence settled over the diners, but it was not the awkward pall it might have been; people were simply eating and drinking.

“This is superb,” said Aristide, tipping his glass close to a candle flame. “Cestinian? An ontichialo?”

A mercy: The cellars had lain largely undisturbed since Daddy’s funeral. The wine was the one true luxury on the table. The interim tenants’ depredations had been patchy; someone without taste or knowledge, probably, who had left them a fair selection of good vintages. Small blessings. And another mercy: Each bottle drew out the effects of whatever Solstice magic had descended on her house.

Porashtu mixed with Geddan—nearly everyone at the table understood both. Jokes switched languages halfway through.