“You’re … you’re not English, are you?”

Anna died several deaths inside, but Ariadne simply laughed.

“I was born in Bombay,” she said. “My parents ran the Bombay Institute until they were killed. I was adopted by the Bridgestocks in Idris.”

She spoke very plainly, in the tone of someone who has long accepted a set of facts.

“What killed your parents?” Christopher asked conversationally.

“A group of Vetis demons,” Ariadne said.

“Oh! I knew someone at the Academy that was killed by a Vetis demon!”

“Christopher,” Anna said.

“You go to the Academy?” Ariadne asked.

“Not anymore. I caused one of the wings to explode.” Christopher took a bread roll from a plate and happily began buttering it.

Anna looked at the painting of the ship again, trying to will herself onto the deck and then into the black, pitiless waters. The most lovely girl in the world had just walked into her life and in thirty seconds her dear brother had managed to bring up the death of her family, a death at school, and the fact that he had blown up part of the Academy.

But Ariadne was not looking at Christopher, even as he inadvertently placed his elbow into the butter dish.

“Have you caused any explosions?” she asked Anna.

“Not yet,” Anna replied. “But the evening is young.”

Ariadne laughed, and Anna’s soul sang. She reached over and lifted her brother’s elbow from the butter, never taking her gaze from Ariadne. Did she know how beautiful she was? Did she know her eyes were the color of liquid gold, and that songs could be written about the way she turned out her wrist to reach for her glass?

Anna had seen beautiful girls before. She had even seen a few beautiful girls who looked at her the way she looked at them. But that was always in passing. They went by on the street, or their gaze lingered a bit long in a shop. Anna had practiced the art of the prolonged stare, the one that invited them: Come. Tell me of yourself. You are lovely.

There was something in the way Ariadne was looking at Anna that suggested …

No. Anna had to be imagining it. Ariadne was being polite and attentive. She was not eyeing Anna romantically over the dinner table, over the roasted potatoes and the duck. Ariadne’s perfection had caused Anna to hallucinate.

Ariadne continued to contribute to the conversation at the other end of the table. Anna had never been so interested in the economic policies of Idris. She would study them night and day if she could join Ariadne in discussing them.