‘How old is the son?’
‘Nearly seventeen, I think. But he’s not coming. I simply couldn’t think of a thing he could usefully do. And, you know, boys of that age can be so difficult and disruptive. Not you, though, my darling. Never you.’
Lady Thalia raised her tiny teacup in a salute to her favourite son – albeit there wasn’t much competition. Silyen smiled back serenely. It was frustrating, though, that the boy was not coming. Perhaps one of his sisters would prove suitable instead.
‘I can’t imagine there’s anything the youngest can usefully do either.’
‘I quite agree. But Jenner insisted. He wanted the whole family, said we couldn’t split up parents and children. So I met him halfway and said we’d take the little girl, but not the boy. He still wasn’t happy, but he knows my word is final. I worry that because of the way he is, he identifies overly much with these sorts of people. It’s not something your father and I wish to encourage.’
Jenner’s unfortunate deficiency and his inappropriate sympathy for the commoners was another well-worn topic of conversation, so Silyen transferred his attention back to the pear on his plate. Its dissection was almost complete when the doorbell jangled from the hallway beyond, horribly echoed by a strangled howl.
Great-Aunt Hypatia must have brought her pet. As Silyen listened, the howl gave way to low whining. It would be a mercy to kill the creature one of these days – though it might be more amusing to set it free.
‘That’ll be the Chancellor and your great-aunt,’ said Lady Thalia, quickly checking her appearance in a silver cream jug before rising. ‘Your father’s got her down to talk about Gavar’s wedding. When she heard Winterbourne was coming here too, she invited herself into his state car for the journey. Only Hypatia would inveigle a lift from the most powerful man in the land.’
Their visitors waited just inside Kyneston’s carved oak door. Chancellor Winterbourne Zelston cut a stately figure, while Great-Aunt Hypatia was resplendent in fox furs, every one from an animal she’d hunted herself. A third filthy shape lay between them, its thin sides heaving. It scratched occasionally, as if at fleas, though more likely at the sores that badged its protruding ribs. Its nails were untrimmed and curled under, scrabbling against the smooth flagstones.
‘Lord Chancellor,’ Lady Thalia said, dropping a curtsey.
As the Chancellor nodded acknowledgement, sunlight from the vast windows of the Great Hall caught the beads ornamenting the neat cornrows of his hair, casting bright spangles across Kyneston’s walls. Silyen suspected the man had long cultivated the art of positioning himself for such effects.
Zelston clasped Lady Thalia’s hand, platinum rings gleaming on his dark fingers. An immaculate starched white cuff peeped out beneath the rich black fabric of his coat. His dress suggested a man of absolutes. But his politics were less clear-cut. Father, the previous incumbent of the Chancellor’s Chair, would issue frequent dinner-table diatribes on its current occupant’s shortcomings.
‘It’s an honour to be back at Kyneston,’ Zelston murmured. ‘I regret that parliamentary business has kept me away so long. I have missed my visits.’
‘And my sister Euterpe has missed you,’ Mama replied. ‘I am sure of it, though we cannot truly know. Please do go through to her.’
The Chancellor wasted no time. He issued a clipped ‘Good day’ to Great-Aunt Hypatia, then strode towards the inner recesses of the house. Silyen pushed off from the wall to follow him, stepping carefully over the quivering creature. He gave his great-aunt her customary greeting, which is to say none at all.
The Chancellor needed no directions as they passed through the wide passageway lined with Jardine and Parva family portraits. He had been visiting Kyneston since before Silyen was born.
At the end of the passage were two doors. The left revealed a plainly painted room containing an ebony piano, a spinet, and shelves packed with scores. Silyen’s music room, where he practised rather more than music.
Zelston, of course, ignored it. He reached for the familiar handle of the second, closed door then paused and turned. Against his dark skin, the man’s eyes appeared bloodshot. Had he wept, when he’d read Silyen’s letter?
‘If you have lied to me,’ Zelston said hoarsely, ‘I will break you.’
Silyen suppressed a smirk. This was more like it.
The Chancellor’s eyes searched his face, looking for – what? Fear? Indignation? Falsity? Silyen was silent, inviting him to take a good look. Zelston grunted then opened the door.