The night of Rotherhite’s dinner, Cyril’s cab switchbacked up the cliffs, crested the rise, and began a descent toward the interior. The houses lining the road drew farther and farther back until the driver pulled into a cul-de-sac surrounded by low stone walls and iron fences. Warm lamps lit the pavement, but not the sweep of gardens that separated each grand house from its neighbors and the street. The neighborhood was far enough from the edge of the sea cliffs that wind stirred the trees but didn’t threaten Cyril’s hat. He paid his fare and the cabbie left him standing at the apex of the cul-de-sac, staring down a long front walk lined in privet.
When the footman opened the door, light from the foyer spread in a golden fan across the path and the hedges. Cyril blinked in the sudden brightness.
“Mr. Landseer?” The footman bowed him in and took his coat. “The others are in the drawing room.”
Upstairs, Rotherhite held court at an upright piano, singing some sort of rowdy folk song. A fat man with a wide nose and wind-burned cheeks sang along. Berhooven, most likely. Van der Joost leaned on the side of the upright, holding a glass and half-smiling.
A young woman in a green silk bolero sat on the sofa. She had a strong jaw and straight nose. Her hair, cropped into a wavy shingle, shone the warm maple-brown of buckwheat honey. She tapped thin fingers on her knee, mostly matching the beat of the music.
A patrician older lady—by appearance, the mother of the seated girl—welcomed Cyril from her place at the sideboard. She had the same long neck as her daughter, and the same set jaw. Citrine earrings threw spots of gold onto the papery skin of her throat. “You must be the long-awaited Mr. Landseer.” She poured two aperitifs and brought them to where he stood. “I don’t suppose I have to tell you, but we’re all inordinately pleased you could finally make it to Gedda.” She offered him a glass. “I’m Minna Keeler. Please, have a seat.”
He took the chair at a right angle to the sofa, but not before shaking the hand of the striking woman seated there.
“Sofie,” said Keeler. “My eldest.”
Sofie’s handshake was firm and dry, and she met his gaze. Her eyes were bright hazel, more green than brown, flecked with spots of orange. “Mr. Landseer,” she said. “Mother’s told us so much about you.”
“All of it good, I hope.”
“I’m afraid Loelia was struck with a cold,” said Keeler, “and couldn’t come. Shame, she’s such a charming girl. And my youngest, Jane, is still in school.”
“My sincerest well-wishes for the invalid,” said Cyril. “I’ve only just recovered, myself.”
“Keeler!” Berhooven waved her over to the piano. “Come tell Van der Joost he’s talking rot.”
“Do excuse me.” She swept away in a ripple of navy skirts.
“Poor Mummy,” said Sofie Keeler. “Always called on to defend the ladies when Konrad hares off on one of his screeds.”
“And is that very often?”
She rolled her eyes. “You wouldn’t believe it. And the absurd thing is, she was raised by a lot of hair-shirted Holy Hearth missionaries at a cloister school in Enselem.” Sofie’s speech was rapid but smooth, rolling in the careless rhythm of privileged gossip: Each word ran into the next as if she expected he already knew what she was going to say. “Half the time, I think she’s quite nearly on his side. Only, if she gave in too easily, you can be sure he’d use it against her. He’s got a lot of clout.” Smirking, she lowered her voice and added, “Even if he does look like a lamprey.”
Their conspiratorial laughter was interrupted by the arrival of the butler, with the dinner announcement. Cyril, to his great delight, was seated with Sofie.
“Newcomer’s privilege,” said Rotherhite. He took the chair at the head of the table, with Van der Joost to his right and Keeler to his left. Berhooven sat at the foot, like a jester.
Rotherhite steered conversation—mostly sports, and his own exotic travels. Berhooven nodded along, occasionally interjecting with his own opinion, which invariably made him, and sometimes the rest of them, laugh. Cyril could tell Berhooven didn’t quite fit here. Even his appearance made him a stranger. He was shorter than his peers, and fatter, with a swarthy complexion and floppy dark curls.
Keeler talked with Van der Joost about business, business, business. Rotherhite picked on her and called her a killjoy, but her icy stare sent him into retreat.
With regret, Cyril saw that his attention to the group dynamics had cost him Sofie’s initial fondness. She toyed with her guinea fowl, pushing a bit of crouton through the raisin sauce. She was thoroughly out of the conversation by the time it swung around to the absent Mijkel Pollerdam, and Cyril asked, “Yes, where is Pollerdam? I was hoping I’d meet him tonight.”
“You’ll very rarely find Pollerdam venturing south of Morray.” Rotherhite dipped his fingers in the pewter bowl offered by a footman. “He spends nearly all his time at his factories.” Morray was a mill town tucked into the foothills of the Culthams, on the border with Farbourgh.
“He prefers more rustic entertainments,” said Berhooven, and Cyril wondered if it was supposed to be a double entendre. No one laughed. “But he’s promised to come down in time for the election.”
“Well, I think it’s admirable.”
The whole table turned to look at Sofie, whose silence had rendered her invisible until then.
“What is, dear?” Van der Joost’s pale eyes stuck to Sofie like barnacles.