Cordelia gaped. She’d had no idea James knew any Persian beyond a few words for food, “thank you,” and “goodbye.” Even Alastair was staring at him with a mixture of surprise and respect.

Sona clapped her hands together in delight. “Have you been learning Persian, James? How wonderful!”

“It was a wedding surprise for Cordelia,” said James. He turned to Elias, still seeming perfectly at ease. “Cordelia tells me you taught her chess,” he said, as if there were no tensions roiling beneath the surface of the dinner. “She is a fierce player. She has beaten me every time we’ve had a match.”

Elias chuckled; the maid had come around to clear the plates, and he was on his fourth glass of wine. There was a red stain on his lapel. Alastair stared at him stonily, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Well, chess is a Persian game, you know, according to the Book of Kings,” he said. “Have you heard the story of how it originated?”

“Not at all,” said James with a straight face. “Do tell.”

He kicked Cordelia lightly under the table. It was fortunate they didn’t play cards more, she thought; he had a perfect face for bluffing.

“Mâmân,” she said, rising from the table. “Let me help you with the chai.”

It was a bit unorthodox for a lady to have anything to do with the preparation of food, but Cordelia knew her mother: no matter how strict the instructions, she would never trust someone else to make tea for her family. It had to be steeped for hours, and spiced with the right blend of saffron, cardamom, cinnamon, and rose water. Water would then be added from the samovar; water from a kettle simply would not do. Sona insisted it made all the difference.

In the kitchen, Cordelia saw with a touch of homesickness that the desserts had already been laid out on a silver tray: sweet sohan assali, and chunks of fried zoolbia bamieh soaked in rose syrup. She came up behind her mother and gently laid an arm about Sona’s shoulders, the silk sleeve of her lace-and-chiffon tea gown fluttering gently. “Mâmân,” she insisted. “You shouldn’t be on your feet so much.”

Sona ignored this and gave a look in the direction of the dining room. “James and your father seem to be getting along.”

Cordelia made an impatient noise. “Father’s rewriting what happened. Every time he tells that story it gets more elaborate and he gets more heroic.”

Sona added a bit of water to the red-brown tea in the pot and eyed it critically. “We’re all allowed to embroider stories a bit. It’s harmless.” She turned to Cordelia. “Layla,” she added, her voice softening, “so much has changed so quickly. You and your brother must give him a chance.”