Weysh cleared his throat, embarrassed. “Yes, she’s . . . things are getting better. So, Sylvie, how is second school?” he asked, deflecting. “Did you ever go to the party?” That started his mother on another stream of cooing and gushing over Sylvie.

No matter what Weysh told himself about his supposed immunity to Montpierre, a nervous energy ran through him for the duration of the meal until they were down to the final sips of their coffee. Weysh wasn’t sure if he wanted Montpierre to hurry up and finish or pour himself another cup.

But Montpierre put his cup down with a clink against its saucer, and as if that was a cue their housekeeper, Genevieve, came humming into the dining room to collect the dishes.

Weysh rose and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Wonderful as usual, Genie,” he said and pecked her on the cheek.

She laughed and patted his shoulder as the rest of the family heaped her with praise. “You always did like my cooking. Maybe a taste of what you’ve been missing will tempt you to come around more often,” she said.

Genevieve had been with their family for more than a decade. Tight guilt gripped Weysh’s chest as he remembered how sometimes, in his bed late at night as a child, he’d wish that Genevieve were his mother instead.

Montpierre rose with a groan from the table and slid his eyes in Weysh’s direction. “All right, let’s get on with it.”

Weysh nodded to Sylvie and his maman, pasting on a reassuring smile to combat the wariness in their eyes.

Montpierre’s study was on the first floor, right under the twin curved staircases that led to the upper den and bedrooms. Weysh felt a small thrill as they approached the door. As a child it was always Stay out of Montpierre’s study, and Don’t bother Montpierre in his study, and now here he was, about to enter Montpierre’s precious study. Montpierre opened the door and waved him inside. Mild disappointment hit Weysh as he surveyed the room. It was so ordinary. It wasn’t as if he expected an alchemists’ laboratory or some such, but the place had always been so mysterious and forbidden. Yet all it held was a large oak desk, two high-backed wing chairs, a dark carpet, and some shelves with books and ledgers. On the walls were portraits of Montpierre’s family—his parents, his siblings, Maman, Sylvie.

Montpierre took a seat behind his desk and directed Weysh to one of the chairs.

“Now then, what is all this about?”

“Well, I find myself in need of your help.”

Montpierre did not respond; he simply squinted at Weysh until he was forced to continue.