“It’s good,” the boy insisted, voice cracking. “Proper good. Like—like Kingsley Davis’ culinary courses!” His eyes flicked to mine, sudden and bright as struck flint. “They’ve got a whole module on heritage meats. Winterbourne just does… soups.”

 I brushed a curl from his forehead, my thumb catching a smear of horseradish. “So you’ve chosen, then?”

 “Kingsley.” He squared his shoulders, mimicking Rafayel’s boardroom posture. “No contest.”

The laugh tore from me too sharply. My fingers raked through Xavier’s hair again—a habit, a tic—catching on a static-charged curl. Rafayel hadn’t moved. His reflection warped in the dining room’s leadlight windows, rain streaking the glass like claw marks behind him.

“You look...