How old was Braxov? A few years younger than himself? Young enough to have been little more than a child when the exodus had begun. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure you’ve had your own burdens.” He shrugged. “It’s not been so bad. I’ve been part of Lady Reveque’s household since before she was married, and she’s a good sort. You can trust her. You can trust them both. And for anything else, I’m here.”

“Thank you.”

Braxov bowed and withdrew.

Josiri sank onto the bed and stared at his reflection in the full-length mirror.

“You need to pull yourself together.”

The reflection offered a baleful stare from behind red-rimmed eyes and four-day stubble. Nonetheless, Josiri’s spirit lightened. Braxov had offered a connection to home. One tainted by guilt and failure, but a connection nonetheless.

Clothes. Clean clothes would help. Josiri clambered to his feet and examined the contents of the wardrobe. Braxov had understated the selection, and it was a simple matter to find shirt, waistcoat and trousers of a close enough fit.

He took the time to unbundle his few possessions and toyed with the idea of asking Braxov for hot water and a razor, the better to scrape away the bristling ruffian he’d beheld in the mirror. But no. That ritual could wait for the morning. He’d need all the sense of self he could muster if he were to face his new “father” and the redoubtable Ebigail Kiradin. Instead, he kicked off his boots and lay down on the bed, fully intending to collect his thoughts.

A polite knock on the door jarred him to wakefulness.

Josiri levered himself groggily upright and rubbed at his eyes. Beyond the curtains, grey skies had deepened almost to black.

“Uncle Josiri? May I open the door?”

The girl’s voice was soft but insistent, not so much posing a question as forewarning of intent.

“Come in.”

The door opened a crack. Blonde hair and blue eyes appeared around the frame, the latter alive with amusement. “You’ve been sleeping.”

“Sidara, is it?”

The skirts of her dress gathered in slender hands, she bobbed a curtsey. “Yes, uncle.”

There it was again. “I’m not your uncle.”

“Mother says you are Uncle Viktor’s brother? That’s so, isn’t it?”

“So I’m told.”

“Then you are also my uncle. Not a real uncle, but near enough. Or am I to address you as Lord Akadra?”

He winced. “Uncle Josiri will be fine.”

“See?” She smiled, leaving Josiri with the distinct impression he’d been outmanoeuvred. “It’s very simple after all. I’m sure I’ll be your favourite niece.”

He couldn’t help but smile at her earnestness. “As it happens, you’re my only niece.”

If the lack of competition troubled Sidara any, none of it showed in her expression. “Father wishes to know if you’ll be joining him for dinner.”