«You know Belqati Solstice custom, right?» A lock of Daoud’s hair had fallen from his wax, and he’d lost the stiffness that usually held him at right angles. «For married couples?»

“Oh no,” said Lillian, laughing.

«The longest night of the year,» Daoud went on. «You have to spend it like you want to spend the rest of them.»

“Holy stones,” said Stephen, putting his face into his hands. Lillian’s attention had wandered, and it seemed Magnusson had been … festive in pouring for her son. Oh well, it was only once a year.

«Just married couples?» asked Jinadh, leaning in on one elbow. «Heaven and earth, the things the court got up to on Solstice night would sizzle your small hairs.»

“I think it was similar for some families in the village,” said Lillian. “Of course, not our parents.” Cyril didn’t return her smile; she hadn’t been expecting it, really. “But I know some women thought it was a good night to conceive.”

“Stopped premature births,” said Aristide. “Kept the baby longer in the womb. That’s what the older women always said, anyway.”

Something about the rhythm of his speech shifted slightly when he said it, in a way that Lillian could almost place. “And when were you conceived?” she asked, wine-daring.

He gave a little shrug. “The only people who could answer that question are long dead.”

Damnation. She’d put her foot through the fragile glass of flirtation and merriment. Striving to regain sparkling ground, she said, “Well, what did you do for Solstice when you were young? Before they went?”

“Mother died when I was born.” He delivered it like any other small talk, with a wry twist to his mouth. He knew it wasn’t what she’d hoped for. Perhaps this was revenge for her probing questions this afternoon. “My father would go down the mountain to the pub and drink ’til he was sick. Sometimes I went along, when I got older. Not to drink so much as to get him home safely. And the tips were always better that time of year.”

“Tips?” asked Jinadh, looking trepidatious.

“The first boards I ever tread,” said Aristide. “Solstice was the only time my father saw me sing. And the only time he didn’t beat me for it. He didn’t like me to go down to the pub. Embarrassed, I think.”

Like everyone else at the table. Pudding course finished, brandy poured, there was nothing in the offing to end the eggshell silence that had crept between the plates.

Until Cyril, who had been silent through the meal, said, “Why don’t you sing something now?”

He didn’t say it kindly, nor as though he expected Aristide to take the suggestion. He tossed the words into the center of the table like a lit firecracker, or a live grenade.

Despite all that, she thought for a moment Aristide might do it.