But it did not feel like scheming at the time; it felt like an experiment I could not quite stop running.

Every week the Whitcombes handed me a fresh piece of data about who they were, and every week I filed it, the way I file everything, without deciding yet what it meant.

Theodora correcting my posture at dinner.

Winston explaining the stock market to me, slowly, using small words, while my own firm held positions that would have made his portfolio look like pocket change.

Callum laughing along, or worse, going quiet — always the quiet, the strategic deafness that let him keep his mother’s approval and my company at the same time.

I told myself I was gathering information.