“That’s another reason why I don’t resent you guys,” Brous said. “This whole ‘born to rule’ shit’s gotta get tiring. All I have to do is drive your dad and string words together.”

“What if you don’t want to rule?” Hart said.

“Don’t rule,” Brous said. “I’m not sure why you’re asking that, though, Hart. You’ve done a pretty good job of not ruling so far.”

“What do you mean?” Hart asked.

“There’s four of you,” Brous said. “Two of you are primed to go into the family business: Brandt, because he likes the perks, and Catherine, because she’s actually good at it. Two of you want nothing to do with it: Wes, who figured out early that one of you gets to be the screwup, so it might as well be him, and you. The screwup slot was already claimed by Wes, so you did the only logical thing left to third sons of a noble family—you went elsewhere to seek your fortune.”

“Wow, you’ve actually thought about this a lot,” Hart said.

Brous shrugged. “I’m a writer,” he said. “And I’ve had a lot of time to observe you guys.”

“You could have told me all this earlier,” Hart said.

“You didn’t ask,” Brous said.

“Ah,” Hart said.

“Also, I could be wrong,” Brous said. “I’ve learned over time I’m full of just about as much shit as anyone.”

“No, I don’t think you are,” Hart said. “Wrong, I mean. I remain neutral about the ‘full of shit’ part.”

“Fair enough,” Brous said. “It sounds like you’re having a moment of existentialist crisis here, Hart, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Maybe I am,” Hart said. “I’m trying to decide what I want to be when I grow up. A nice thing to wonder about when you’re thirty.”

“I don’t think it matters what age you are when you figure it out,” Brous said. “I think the important thing is to figure it out before someone else tells you what you want to be, and they get it wrong.”

*   *   *

“Who’s giving the toast this year?” Isabel asked. They were all seated at the table: Alastair and Isabel, Hart, Catherine, Wes and Brandt and their spouses. The children were sequestered away in the next room, on low tables, and were busy throwing peas and rolls at one another while the nannies vainly tried to keep control.

“I’ll give the toast,” Alastair said.

“You give the toast every year,” Isabel said. “And your toasts are boring, dear. Too long and too full of politics.”

“It’s the family business,” Alastair said. “It’s a family dinner. What else should we talk about?”

“And besides which, you’re still bitter about the election, and I don’t want hear about it tonight,” Isabel said. “So no toast from you.”

“I’ll give the toast,” Brandt said.